The Case of the Domino Effect
by Lunavere
Summary: John and Sherlock have hit a plateau in their relationship, but neither is willing to talk about it. When Lestrade comes in with a new and frankly urgent case, John and Sherlock are forced to define what they exactly are to each other... and how far they're willing to go for one another. 2 of 3.
1. The First Domino Falls

**Author's Note: **Part two of my Johnlock series. Please not that this is my original plotline. If you see this anywhere besides here or my AO3 account, please report it as stolen and contact me immediately.

* * *

"Morning," John greeted as Sherlock came out of his bedroom. He turned the page of the newspaper he was reading and began skimming for anything interesting.

Fixing his robe, Sherlock muttered, "Morning." He made a bee-line for the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Emerging from the kitchen, Sherlock scratched the back of his head as he walked towards John. "Anything interesting?" he asked as he sat down across from John.

"Nothing so far," John answered honestly as he flipped the page again.

A moment of silence passed between them before Sherlock started, "So, about that experiment-"

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! No!" John exclaimed, cutting him off. His face began to heat up despite himself. "We already talked about this. I am _not_ submitting myself to another one of your experiments."

Sherlock crossed his arms and began pouting. "I don't know why you object so strongly. It's not as if this experiment is life-threatening," he responded childishly.

"Because you already experimented kissing me, remember?" John responded sharply as he picked the paper up to hide his face, which was growing hotter with every passing minute. "I could handle it for those couple of weeks, but you're talking about _years _of 'testing.' And you cannot even prove your hypothesis either way since we don't know how long I'm going to live. So, no – you are not allowed to kiss me every morning in order to hopefully extend my lifetime."

Suddenly, John watched as the paper was crushed down by a lithe hand. His heart raced as his eyes met Sherlock's. Swallowing, John set his jaw and stared Sherlock down. "If I recall correctly, you did not object to my previous experiment," he noted.

"Then your memory is faulty, because I was furious when you kissed me at that crime scene," John pointed out, trying to calm down.

Sherlock scoffed as he heard this. "Your objection was not to the kiss but to the location," he stated matter-of-factly as he leaned in. "And your demeanour tells me that you would not object now were I to kiss you."

Subconsciously, John had leaned forward while Sherlock was talking. When he heard those words, he came to his senses and jerked back. "It's good to know you're still human, Sherlock," he commented nonchalantly as he rubbed some of the wrinkles out of the newspaper. "Sometimes you don't deduce properly."

Huffing, Sherlock sat back in his seat and looked around the flat. John sighed in relief. It had been approximately three months since Sherlock solved the Green-Eyed Soldier case. Since then, John struggled even more to define their relationship. They were no longer just flatmates; they had not been flatmates since Sherlock invited John to the first crime scene. So John had classified them as friends until Irene Adler forced him to face his feelings for Sherlock. After a huge identity crisis, John labelled himself "straight with the exception of Sherlock" and had accepted his love as unrequited. It was only recently that he realised Sherlock might feel something for him as well.

But that then led up to the categorization of their relationship. They were not dating in the traditional sense. After all, they were living together but not physically involved with one another. In fact, Sherlock refused to kiss John unless it was for a scientific experiment, and John could not pluck up the courage to kiss Sherlock outright again. And even though he secretly missed Sherlock's touch, John did not feel comfortable with taking such a scientific outlook on their relationship. He did not want to be just another one of Sherlock's experiments. All this led him to believe that they were not dating, and they were definitely not boyfriends. But they had gone further than best mates would. So _what_ were they?

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked, cutting into John's thoughts.

John quickly lied, "I'm reading."

"Then you've been reading the same word for the last seven minutes," Sherlock retorted.

Once again, John hated how observant Sherlock could be and how fascinated he was by it. "It's nothing you would concern yourself with," he muttered as he closed the newspaper. "There's nothing you would seem interesting in the papers. Have you checked the website yet?"

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered bitterly before he took another sip of his coffee.

John made a mental note to hide his handgun before noon if they did not get a case. Although Mrs Hudson had forgiven and forgotten the first shooting, John doubted she would show the same amount of generosity the second time around. If there was one thing John was sure of, it was that he could not afford for their rent to spike. Opening his laptop, John checked his own blog to see if anyone had written him about a case. Nothing. He closed his laptop again and watched for a moment as Sherlock paced around the room. It was going to be a long day if Sherlock did not get a case soon. Boredom drove Sherlock insane, which normally drove John insane.

Suddenly, a thought struck John's mind. He remembered Donovan warning him about Sherlock at the very beginning. "Sherlock," he called out, his curiosity getting the better of him. Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John expectantly. "Have you ever thought about it?" he asked, not grasping the fact that Sherlock could not actually read his mind.

"About what?" Sherlock inquired.

John hesitated a moment, unsure if he should ask or not. Would Sherlock take it the wrong way? Still, he wanted to know the truth. He replied, "Sorry. Have you ever thought about killing someone?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up a bit in interest. A soft smile curled at the corner of his lips. "What do you believe my answer is, John?" he inquired, clearly more interested in John's opinion.

"I think you would start off by reminding me just how much of an idiot everyone is, especially the incompetent detectives at Scotland Yard," John began. "You must know that you being a murderer never crossed my mind, even after Donovan's warning."

Nodding slightly, Sherlock said, "Yes, I know. Even when I had that pink suitcase in front of me, the thought never crossed your mind."

"Because you're not a psychopath," John responded earnestly. "You get your kicks out of discovering _how_ someone did something – sometimes even the why. If you were the killer, there would be no puzzle for you to solve."

Sherlock quickly played devil's advocate. "What if it was for the thrill of making Scotland Yard look completely incompetent?"

"Sherlock, you already do that," John responded, chuckling a bit. "And if you were thrown behind bars, you could say, 'Goodbye,' to solving anymore cases. How boring would life be for you then?"

Smiling at John, Sherlock glanced out the window. His smile grew to a toothy grin, and he rushed back into his bedroom. Quickly, John rose to his feet and looked out the window to see a patrol car sitting outside of their flat. He smiled softly and headed into the kitchen in order to pour Lestrade a cup of coffee. As he emerged from the kitchen with the mug in hand, John heard a light rapping at their door. He opened it and greeted, "Morning, Detective Inspector."

"Morning," Lestrade managed, stifling a yawn.

John offered the mug of coffee. "Here. You look like you need it more than me," he stated.

Without hesitating, Lestrade accepted the mug and took a sip. "Thank you," he said gratefully. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Getting changed," John answered. "He saw the patrol car."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I did not know he felt uncomfortable in his pyjamas with company in the house. Rumour has it that he went to Buckingham Palace with only a sheet covering him," he said.

"One word: Mycroft," John stated.

"Ah," Lestrade said noncommittally. "Makes sense."

Sherlock walked out of his bedroom still buttoning his shirt. "What happened?" he asked. He did not even give Lestrade a chance to speak before he added, "And make it quick."

"There was a bank robbery this morning in Brixton," Lestrade began. John looked at him in surprise. Last time John checked, Lestrade should not be investigating bank robberies. "The culprit was a Mr James Thornton. At 8:03 this morning, he walked into the bank, held up the few tellers and clients there, collected over a million pounds, and left. Luckily, one of the tellers was quick enough to hit the silent alarm button. Police units arrived to just miss him, but they caught up with him moments later. The attempted escape escalated to a high speed pursuit that ended in disaster. The suspect's car spun out of control, rolled three times, and crashed."

Pursing his lips, Sherlock said, "So why are you here?"

"You need to work on his patience," Lestrade informed John, ignoring Sherlock completely.

John smiled as he heard this. "Give me some time. I'm not a miracle worker, after all," he responded, unable to hide the laughter in his voice.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called out impatiently.

"He stole over a million British pounds from that bank. He had those pounds shoved in a black duffel bag, which we watch him throw into that car. However, we searched the car and the area around the crash site to find _nothing_," Lestrade explained. "The money is missing, Sherlock, and we have no idea how it managed to disappear."

John saw Sherlock's eyes spark in interest. "Take me to it," he stated, grabbing his trench coat and scarf. Both Lestrade and John exchanged surprised glances. Shrugging, John promptly followed Sherlock down the stairs. Once they got outside, Lestrade headed over to the car and opened the door. "Lestrade," Sherlock said, staring at him like he was an idiot.

"Why not? Donovan and Anderson want photos. They'll pay, even," Lestrade responded, smiling. "I'll split it with you."

Sherlock glanced over at John. "Hail us a cab," he ordered. Without questioning him, John headed towards the road. "We'll follow you," Sherlock stated.

"Why not just ride with me? Or are you starting to care now about your public appearance?" Lestrade jested.

Sherlock scoffed as he heard the insinuation. "Of course not. But John cares. I would not hear the end of it if those pictures were published in the a paper. Knowing Anderson and Donovan as well as I do, those pictures would be sent in anonymously," he answered.

A taxi pulled over, and John opened the back door. He looked back at Sherlock expectantly. Nodding to Lestrade, Sherlock quickly headed over. "Follow that police vehicle," he ordered before slipping into the taxi. John slid in after him and slammed the door shut.

"Theories?" he asked, knowing Sherlock would understand what he meant.

Looking out the taxi window, Sherlock answered, "Three so far. I need more information."

"You never answered my question," John pointed out.

Sherlock retorted, "You technically never answered it either."

"Fine," John said, knowing Sherlock would never tell him until he answered the question first. "I think you've thought about killing someone. I think you've thought about it for a total of five seconds before realising what a stupid idea it was. And I don't think you've ever entertained the idea since." He looked over at Sherlock and inquired, "So was I right?"

The taxi jostled a bit, and Sherlock looked forward. "I was sixteen. I thought about it for a full ten seconds," he responded vaguely. "Unfortunately, Mummy would miss Mycroft very dearly, so I stayed my hand."

John burst out laughing as he heard this. Looking over at him, Sherlock smiled before laughing along with him. "Do you ever regret it?" he inquired in between breaths.

"Every time he calls," Sherlock replied honestly, still laughing.

Eventually, the laughter died, and they were left both grinning in the taxi. John rested his head back on the headrest, shaking his head slightly. Closing his eyes, he relaxed as the taxi made its way through the busy streets. Time passed by slowly and quietly, which was comfortable for the two. Finally, the taxi stopped. John opened his eyes and quickly slipped out of the vehicle and looked back at Sherlock. After telling the cabbie to wait, Sherlock got out of the car as well. They both took a moment to take in the sight in front of them.

The scene of the crash had already been taped off. Dark skid marks marred the road before tearing up the grass. Rocking up onto his toes in order to see more, John saw the car was further down the embankment and was on its roof. It was a dark grey, four-door sedan – nondescript, which would be good for someone trying to blend it. Sherlock ducked under the tape and held it up for John to walk under. Clearly disgusted, Donovan rolled her eyes as Sherlock and John headed down the embankment. John still wondered what Sherlock exactly said to make her hate him so. Pushing those thoughts aside, he turned back to the car and waited for Sherlock to need him. Sherlock walked around the car, every now and again ducking down to get a closer look. As Sherlock examined the victim, his eyebrows furrowed together.

"John, come here," Sherlock said. John was almost immediately by Sherlock's side. Motioning to the victim, Sherlock pressed, "Tell me what you see."

John looked into the car. The victim was an older white male, probably in his late fifties to early sixties. Examining the body, John noticed the bruising from the seatbelt. There were scratches from the glass shattering on impact. Suddenly, something caught John's attention. Leaning closer, John noticed a liquid substance in the corner of the victim's mouth. He leaned forward and smelled carefully before recoiling. Vomit. Glancing around the car, John could not help but notice that there was no vomit anywhere else. He carefully reached out and massaged the victim's neck and felt the swelling. Quickly, John pulled back and looked at Sherlock.

"His death was not caused by the accident. He asphyxiated on his own vomit, which means his choking led to the crash. It looks like he had anaphylaxis," John said, knowing he was confirming what Sherlock already knew.

Sherlock's eyes lit up as he heard this. "Fascinating. So a man robs a bank, gets away with the money, is murdered, and the money disappeared without a trace," he muttered to himself, glancing back at the road. "But _how_?"

"That's what you're supposed to figure out," John pointed out. "What have you figured out so far?"

Sherlock turned back towards the car. "He's a 54 year old male going from his receding hairline and lack of thickness. Dark spots and sun aging on his skin means he worked outside a lot – probably a manual labourer. He could be a farmer, but he's has a strong physique that farmers wouldn't need, which means he's probably a construction worker. He's used to living a little bit outside his means, obvious by the Vauxhall Ventra he's driving, but he is smart with his money." Brows furrowed together, Sherlock stood up straight again. "Then why the sudden need for money?"

"I beg your pardon?" Lestrade asked, finally having approached the two of them.

Sherlock explained, "Although he lives somewhat out of his means, he's very good with his finances, obvious by how he's managed to buy and keep this relatively new car. He isn't a gambler, and he wouldn't take out an unnecessary loan or commit to a high risk investment. So why would he feel the need to rob a bank?"

"Maybe he was tired of living like that," Anderson suggested. He stood off a ways, watching Sherlock with clear distaste. "Greed could have gotten the better of him."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned around and snapped, "Anderson, do the world a favour and stop talking." Anderson set his jaw and glared at Sherlock in response. "Greed did not motivate this man. He would be wearing better clothes and own a Rolex if that was the case. No. We're missing something." With that, Sherlock began sifting through the car.

"Sherlock, you can't do that," Lestrade rebuked. "You'll contaminate the crime scene!"

Sherlock ignored Lestrade, and John looked at the Detective Investigator sympathetically. Everyone knew that Lestrade needed Sherlock, which meant that the consulting detective would do whatever he wanted. After looking through the car a bit more, Sherlock pulled back and said, "Your next best bet is check out this man's house. There must be something in his life that sheds light on why he needed to rob a bank. Look into his finances to see what his lifestyle is like while you're at it. See if there have been any large withdrawals lately. Get back to me."

With that, Sherlock headed up the embankment. John scrambled after him, waving goodbye to Lestrade as he struggled to catch up with Sherlock's long strides. "So what are you keeping from them?" John inquired.

"Technically, nothing," Sherlock replied. "It will just take them a lot longer to figure out what I already know."

Glancing around, John made sure no one could overhear them. "And what might that be?" he inquired.

"He was being blackmailed," Sherlock answered. "He needed the money for a specific reason. My best guess is her." With that, he whipped out the photo of a you woman, probably in her early 20s, holding a newspaper. Her brown eyes were wide with fear; her long, brown hair messy and unkempt; and her knuckles were white as she gripped the paper as hard as possible.

John's heart sank as he saw her. Covering his mouth with a hand, he turned away and felt his stomach churn. "Oh, God," he muttered to himself as he closed his eyes for a moment. The photograph was a proof of life, but she was not blindfolded. If she was not blindfolded, chances were that she knew what her kidnappers looked like. If she knew what they looked like, chances were slim that she would ever make it out alive.

"If they were planning to kill her, she's already dead," Sherlock said softly. "There's no need to get upset about something you cannot change."

Awestruck by his flatmate's lack of empathy, John incredulously asked, "No need, Sherlock? _No_ _need?_ There's a young woman out there somewhere, terrified out of her mind, and probably staring death in the face. You should have told Lestrade!"

"There are also thousands of people staring death in the face as we speak, many of them even younger than her," Sherlock pointed out, tucking the photo in his pocket. "And Lestrade will find out when he searches the house. However, if I told him now, he would have taken this picture as evidence, and I would not have been able to investigate as I need to." A moment of silence passed between the two as Sherlock opened the taxi door. "It'll be faster this way. Better for her."

John answered, "Jesus, Sherlock, of course I know that. You're a much better chance for her than the Yard, but that doesn't mean that I should just be indifferent to her plight."

"It also doesn't mean you should take the weight of the world on your shoulders if we find her dead," Sherlock responded as he slid in. "St. Bart's Hospital."

Sliding in after him, John closed the door. "Why are we going to Bart's?" he asked.

"I need Molly to run some tests for me," Sherlock answered as he pulled out his pocket magnifying glass. He began to closely examine the photograph. John knew better than to ask anything while Sherlock was observing, so he sat back in the seat and closed his eyes again as he tried to clear his mind. If anyone could save that girl, it was Sherlock, and John knew he just needed to place his complete faith in the consulting detective. Silence filled the air, and it was so quiet that John nearly jumped when Sherlock called out, "John."

Looking over at his flatmate, John asked, "We there?"

"Indeed," Sherlock said, motioning towards the building.

John quickly hopped out of the taxi as Sherlock paid the cabbie. They then headed inside, John following Sherlock, and to the morgue. As expected, Molly was down there, carefully examining a corpse. She looked up in surprise as she heard the door open. Almost immediately, she became flustered and flushed. She fidgeted slightly as she said, "Hello, Sherlock. Dr Watson."

"Molly, I need you to test the residue on this photo," Sherlock stated, cutting right to the chase.

Blinking in surprise, Molly reached forward and grabbed the photo. "Should I test for anything in particular first?"

"Common allergens that bring on anaphylaxis," Sherlock told her. "And I need you to return that photo to me as soon as you have what you need. I still need to do my own tests on it."

Molly whispered, "Okay," before scurrying off.

John felt bad for her. After all, he understood more or less where she was coming from. It was hard to love Sherlock, especially since he was so oblivious in regards to love. And although Sherlock knew John was in love with him, he had not made a single move outside of trying to start some experiments. John had been left feeling defeated and wondering if someone else – someone like Molly or Irene Adler – would have been better for Sherlock. Sighing, John shook his head and followed Sherlock out of the morgue and up to the laboratories the level above. Molly was already processing the picture, taking several swabs before handing it back to Sherlock. In turn, Sherlock took the picture and headed towards the opposite side of the room. John followed him as he always did and stood just off to the side, waiting in case Sherlock needed him.

Both Sherlock and Molly went to work. Sherlock was examining the picture under his pocket magnifying glass again. On the other side of the room, Molly slid a swab into a test tube filled halfway with some chemicals. Each of them worked independently, neither of them acknowledging the fact that the other person even existed. Finally, Molly beamed brightly before practically skipping over to Sherlock. "Peanuts," she informed him, showing him a print out.

Glancing over at it, Sherlock quickly responded, "Of course. Obvious. Thank you, John."

"That's Molly, Sherlock," John responded bitterly. "And for being the most observant man in the world, I'm offended that you think my voice sounds anything like that." He crossed his arms and pressed his lips together in distaste.

Sherlock smirked as he heard this. "I apologise. Thank you, Molly," he corrected himself before briefly looking up at John. His eyes reflected his amusement at John's indignity.

"You're welcome," she murmured in response, flushing a bit. "Do you need help with anything else?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock answered, "That'll be all."

"Oh. Okay then," she said quietly, avoiding eye contact with both of them. She looked around uncomfortably before heading back over to her station.

John couldn't help himself. She just looked so pitiful shuffling around her stuff. Quietly, he headed over to her and whispered, "You really did help him back there. He's not very good at being grateful, but that doesn't mean he isn't. He just can't express himself very well."

"I know," Molly answered, forcing a smile on her face. "But thank you for your concern."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Call Lestrade immediately." Quickly pulling out his phone, John punched in Lestrade's speed dial. As soon as the mobile began ringing, Sherlock walked over and snatched it out of John's hands. John stumbled after Sherlock, barely managing to bid Molly goodbye as he scrambled to keep up. Sherlock said, "Lestrade? Get to the Thames River immediately. You're looking for a boat that's parallel or near Jubilee Gardens. It'll be a small, nondescript boat. The suspect's daughter will be there." John could barely hear Lestrade yelling at Sherlock, asking the consulting detective how long he had known about the kidnapping and blackmail. Instead of answering, Sherlock closed the mobile and handed it back to John.

"Alright, how you know?" John asked as they headed towards the exit.

Not faltering for ever a second, Sherlock explained, "The room she is in is decorated with fishing equipment. She's been kidnapped, so she would not be taken to the kidnapper's home. No hotel would be caught dead with such décor, so that means she has to be somewhere else that would be decorated as such. The only logical possibility is a boat. So if you were a kidnapper, where would you go with a boat? Somewhere where it would not stand out – so, River Thames."

"But how could you know that it's anywhere near Jubilee Gardens?" John pressed as he hailed a cab.

Sherlock scoffed, "A mirror is nearly clipped out of the picture, but the Ferris wheel is visible So, near Jubilee Gardens."

"How do we know she's even still there?" John asked as he opened the taxi door.

Shrugging, Sherlock said, "We don't. This is a shot in the dark. Let us hope that it hits true."

Their taxi ride to the Thames was painstakingly slow. All John could think about was this poor girl, either dying or dead on this boat. Leaping out of the taxi, John felt his heart sink as he saw police cars and tape marking off the area around a boat. Lestrade was giving orders. His attention turned towards John and Sherlock as they headed over. Immediately, John knew Lestrade was furious. Lestrade made it to them in less than a minute. "You _cannot_ keep information from us when we're investigating such a sensitive case!" he snarled.

Sherlock was completely indifferent to Lestrade's anger. "Is she still alive?"

"Yes," Lestrade answered. "But that's beside the point, Sherlock! You kept important information from us. Important information that could have led us to a dying girl faster."

Shaking his head, Sherlock cut in, "I told you to go to his house, didn't I? And I take that you found the ransom note somewhere in that house – probably on the kitchen counter or on top of his desk – ergo I indirectly informed you about the kidnapping and did not in fact keep any information from you. Besides, you wouldn't have found her any faster. I'm the only reason you're here right now."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled before realising that he had caught the attention of several officers. He took a moment to collect himself before hissing, "Every time I let you on one of our crime scenes, I am putting my arse on the line for you. If I cannot trust you completely, I can't let you at the crime scenes." Sherlock stiffened as he heard this.

John gently said, "Detective Inspector, Sherlock meant-"

"And you," Lestrade growled, turning on John. John blinked in astonishment to hear the venom in Lestrade's voice. "I expected more from you, John. I thought I could at least rely on you!"

Suddenly, Sherlock snapped, "Leave John out of this." Both Lestrade and John looked at him in disbelief. "He didn't know about what I had done until we had left the crime scene, and I kept him from contacting you. This is only between you and me."

Shocked, John could not believe that Sherlock had just lied to Lestrade. And Sherlock had lied in order to deflect the anger rightfully directed at him. After all, John knew better. He should have called Lestrade the moment Sherlock told him about the girl. But he hadn't because he knew Sherlock would figure it out. Sherlock would make everything right. And Sherlock was showing John just how much that trust meant to him. Or, at least, that's what John told himself. How could he truly understand why Sherlock Holmes did what he did?

"Fine," Lestrade said, turning back to Sherlock. "This is your only warning, Sherlock. Pull another stunt like this again, and I will have you arrested for withholding evidence. And you'll never be allowed at another crime scene again."

Sherlock set his jaw and said, "I understand. Let's go, John." He spun on his heels, his trench coat fluttering behind him.

"Sherlock, don't lose sight of the real goal," Lestrade called after him. "We need to get that money back."

Without looking back, Sherlock loudly responded, "And you'll get it!" He whipped out his mobile phone before calling someone. Once again, Sherlock managed to surprise John by his next actions. "Brother dearest, how are you?" Sherlock greeted, using a false chipper tone that he used only for Mycroft. "Quite fine, quite fine. I'm actually working on something for Lestrade, and he was hoping for your help," he explained. Smiling, John rolled his eyes. Even now, Sherlock could not ask his brother forthright for a favour. That would mean he owed Mycroft, which was unacceptable in Sherlock's book. "Yes, _Lestrade_ is hoping for your help. A bank was robbed earlier this morning, and the money has disappeared completely. We need the surveillance footage from the bank as well as any of the vehicle the suspect gets in after the robbery. Over a million quid is on the line, so I'm sure you understand just how important this is." He paused for a moment before a smile broke across his face. "Lestrade will be so grateful. You know where to send it to."

John waited until Sherlock closed his mobile before saying, "You didn't have to do that back there."

"Do what?" Sherlock asked.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, John clarified, "Lie to Lestrade. Defend me. He was right, you know. Although you might not understand, I know better. I should have warned him that there could possibly be a kidnapping."

"Then why didn't you?" Sherlock inquired a bit sharply.

John simply answered, "Because I trust you. I believe in you. Much more than I should, really. And only God knows why I do. But I wouldn't betray you. You do know that, right?"

Smiling softly, Sherlock said, "Yes, I know." Without another word, he hailed a cab and gave their address to the cabbie. John shook his head before getting in after Sherlock. This was most definitely going to be an interesting case.


	2. The Second Domino Falls

John Watson was startled awake by the sound of Sherlock yelling, "Finally!" Blinking, John groaned as he sat up. He had passed out at some point on the couch while waiting with Sherlock for the surveillance tapes. "Mycroft must be off his game if he took that long."

Yawning, John stretched out, grimacing as he felt the tension in his neck. He glanced out of the window to see that it was still dark outside – probably early morning hours. After a moment of silence, he knew he needed a cup of coffee. John rose to his feet and headed into the kitchen. "Want a cup of coffee?" he called back to Sherlock.

He waited the appropriate amount of time needed for Sherlock to process that John had spoken to him, what he had said, and formulate an answer. About fifteen seconds later, Sherlock said, "What? Oh, yes. Yes, please."

John quickly made a pot of coffee. He quickly poured two cups and put two sugars in Sherlock's. Heading back into the living room, John handed Sherlock a cup before leaning down to see the laptop screen. Black-and-white surveillance tape played were playing on the screen. They watched as Thornton, their now dead culprit, burst into the bank. Quickly, he brandished his weapon and forced everyone on the floor. The tellers frantically filled the duffel bag before Thornton snatched it back and hurried out the door. The view abruptly changed to the street. Without hesitating for even a moment, Thornton threw the duffel bag into the car and leapt into the driver's seat. The footage followed him down the street before he turned into an alleyway. After a long moment, the camera view changed to let them see the car. A man was standing on the sidewalk. Thornton and this mysterious man had an exchange, and the man finally pulled out what John assumed was the picture. After taking it and looking at it for some time, Thornton quickly handed the man the duffel bag before tearing out of the alleyway. The entire exchange took less than twenty seconds. The man walked around the corner and disappeared into the crowd. Thornton sat there a moment, probably worrying about his daughter, and a patrol car slowed down next to the alley. After a moment's pause, the patrol car's lights turned on. It was then that Thornton tore out of the alleyway, speeding off down the street.

Sherlock stopped the video and sat back before taking a sip of coffee. "Ingenious," he murmured. "And yet completely dull."

"You would think that, wouldn't you?" John asked rhetorically.

Either Sherlock did not notice John's tone or decided to ignore it completely. "They contaminated that picture of his daughter, knowing that if he made contact with it then he would suffer an anaphylactic shock. But he was wearing gloves when he took the photo and when he crashed. So _how_?" he murmured, pressing his hands together and placing them against his lips.

"Did you check the photograph for prints?" John asked.

"No, but that's useless. Both of these men were wearing gloves, and this plan is thought out well enough that they wouldn't make such an amateur mistake," Sherlock chided.

John replied, "I didn't ask if you dusted for fingerprints, Sherlock. I asked if you dusted for prints." Clearly confused, Sherlock looked at John and raised an eyebrow. John realised that what he was about to say would have never crossed Sherlock's mind otherwise. "It would not be farfetched to believe that Thornton could have kissed the photo."

"Why would he do something like that?" Sherlock asked, mystified.

John informed him, "Because he loves her. Because it could be the last picture he ever sees of her. Because it's something a normal human might do in such an emotionally charged situation. And it's probably how the allergen came into contact with his skin."

Sherlock still looked confused. "And it's completely probable that he would kiss a _photograph_?" he clarified.

"Yes, Sherlock," John answered.

With that, Sherlock closed his laptop, unplugged it, and headed towards the door. John hurried after him, not wanting to be left behind. They popped out of the building and quickly hailed a cab. John was internally grateful that they lived in London, where taxis were on the go 24/7. Sherlock ordered him to drive to St. Bart's, and the driver took off. In due time, they wound up outside Bart's Hospital. It was John's turn to pay, so he did before getting out of the cab. Sherlock was already inside. Sprinting after him, John mentally cursed Sherlock for having such long legs. He always struggled to keep up with Sherlock, who never seemed to notice. John caught up to Sherlock just as the lift doors opened. Stepping onto the lift, John stifled a yawn. Sherlock hit the proper button, and they were in the laboratories before John knew it. Luckily, the photograph Sherlock and Molly had been testing and examining earlier was still down there. It was only then that John realised that Sherlock had not told Lestrade about the photo. Quickly, Sherlock began sifting through the different equipment, clearly looking for the items needed to dust for prints. Rubbing his eyes, John glanced over to find a bench in the back of the lab. Being as out of place as it was, it stood out to John as strange.

"You should rest," Sherlock stated.

John looked back at Sherlock and tilted his head. "What?"

"There's nothing you can do right now," Sherlock explained. "And unlike me, you need to rest whenever possible or this case is going to feel very long to you. Besides, I need for you to be able to keep up with me later. Chances are that we're going to need your keen marksmanship later."

Heading over to the bench, John inquired, "Why is this here?"

"That area used to be a waiting room and this used to be a doctor's office," Sherlock answered as he set several things onto the counter. "They busted out the wall when they decided to renovate this space into laboratories, but they kept one of the benches in order to keep a bit of the 'history' in the room."

John sat down on the hard bench. "Makes sense," he muttered to himself before pulling off his jacket.

"No, it doesn't," Sherlock responded matter-of-factly.

Rolling his eyes, John bunched up his jacket, slid an arm underneath it, brought it closer, and rested his head on it. Getting comfortable, John listened as Sherlock worked – shuffling things around, clinking different things together, typing on his laptop. The different subtle noises were soothing to John. They reminded him that he was not alone. Eventually, his breathing slowed. John relaxed completely despite the fact that he was still a bit uncomfortable on the stiff bench. Suddenly, he heard the door to the laboratories open.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Molly's quiet voice called out.

Sherlock replied, "Evening, Molly. Perfect timing. Could you hand me my coat?"

"Is Dr Watson with you?" she asked, her voice sounding slightly hopeful. John could hear her footsteps getting closer.

Sherlock said, "Over there." He then heard the rustling of material. "Thank you, Molly."

"Are you cold?" Molly inquired, clearly trying to get a conversation going.

Bluntly, Sherlock answered, "No." John could hear a pair of heavy footsteps coming closer. Just as they got right next to him, John felt something lightly cover him. He was overwhelmed by Sherlock's scent, and he smiled softly with realisation. Shifting slightly underneath Sherlock's trench coat, John brought it a bit closer to his face.

"Why did you do that?" Molly asked curiously.

John listened as Sherlock headed back. "He's less likely to have nightmares when covered by something," he answered matter-of-factly. Face flushing, John was not sure how to feel about Sherlock's observations. He felt flattered yet embarrassed.

"Oh," Molly murmured in response. "So he's sleeping?"

Sherlock corrected, "He's resting." John felt surprised, although he knew he really shouldn't. After all, Sherlock's observational skills were above and beyond everyone else's. Of course Sherlock would be able to tell when John was asleep and when he was in limbo between those two stages of consciousness.

"Isn't that the same thing?" Molly inquired.

Scoffing, Sherlock said, "No."

A hush fell over the room, and John could feel just how self-conscious Molly was. Her nervousness was practically radiating from her body. Finally, her soft-spoken voice broke the silence, "So – um – don't take this the wrong way, but – well – I was just wondering…"

"What is it?" Sherlock cut in.

Molly finally asked, "Is there something different between you two?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock queried. John could tell by the tone of his voice that Sherlock was not really paying attention to the conversation.

Hesitating, Molly clarified, "It just seems like your relationship is different." John almost stopped breathing as he heard this. "Not a bad different, mind you, but different." When Sherlock did not say anything, Molly pressed, "So is there something different? Or am I just going crazy?" She laughed a bit after her question, letting it serve as a release for her uneasiness.

"My relationship with John has evolved over the last couple of months. I do not believe anything changed recently, so I am not sure how to answer your question," Sherlock responded.

Molly replied, "Well, I guess that clears that up. I mean, it was silly to think that you two – well, you know." She laughed nervously once more.

"We are together," Sherlock suddenly stated, finally catching onto what Molly was insinuating. John stopped breathing the moment he heard that. How could Sherlock say something like that so lightly? How could he answer the question that had been burning in the back of John's mind since they had kissed? And was that actually what they were? Were they _together_?

"I'm sorry. What?" Molly asked, sounding a bit faint.

Sherlock answered, "You heard me. I don't like repeating myself."

"Since when?" she pressed, her voice sounding faint.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock responded, "Three months, one week, and three days. More or less." John mentally tracked that back to the day they solved the Green-Eyed Soldier case. Suppressing a smile, he felt a spike of giddiness he had not felt since Sherlock kissed him.

"And what does that mean – you two being together?" Molly asked, her voice barely audible.

This time, Sherlock hesitated before he replied, "It means that he isn't dating women anymore. I was never particularly interested in them in the first place, so nothing changes for me."

"So you're gay?" Molly inquired, her voice breaking slightly. John's heart went out to her. He had imagined the pain he would experience if Sherlock ever figured out his feelings and rejected him.

Scoffing, Sherlock answered, "Of course not. I'm only interested in John. He's the only one I could ever be with." John released a breath as he heard this, not having realised he was holding it until that moment.

Molly whispered, "Oh. Okay. Well, good night then."

"Wait, I thought you had to work on something," Sherlock said, completely clueless.

Her broken voice responded, "Oh, no. Thought I forgot something. Guess not. Good night."

She scurried out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her. "Not good?" Sherlock asked, knowing John was still awake.

"You were fine," he answered honestly, not opening his eyes. "It's just a lot of information to take in. After all, I'm sure no one was expecting for us to actually become something more than friends. Besides Mrs Hudson, I mean. So give her some time. She's strong – she'll bounce back."

Clearly confused, Sherlock asked, "Why would she need to bounce back from anything?"

John smiled and shook his head as he heard this. "Spectacularly ignorant, Sherlock," he muttered. "Sometimes so spectacularly ignorant." He could practically see Sherlock's scowl behind his closed eyes, but Sherlock did not respond.

John eventually slipped into a blissful, dreamless sleep. He felt as if he had only been sleeping for a couple minutes before he felt someone lightly shaking him. Groaning, he batted the hand away as he flipped over to sleep some more. "John, wake up," Sherlock called out. John grumbled under his breath and heard Sherlock say, "If you don't get up right now, I'm going to take your handgun and go after the suspect by myself."

"What?" John grunted as he sat up. Sherlock's trench coat fell off his upper torso, and he stared at it blankly for a moment. "Did you figure something out?"

"I had Mycroft pull more surveillance feed, and I figured out where the second suspect went," Sherlock answered, snatching his coat off John. "So are you coming with me?"

John quickly rose to his feet. "Of course I am," he replied as he checked for his handgun. Nowadays, he never left the flat without his handgun. He never knew when Sherlock would lead them into a life-or-death situation anymore.

"Let's go," Sherlock said.

Staggering to his feet, John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he followed Sherlock out of the lab. They emerged from the hospital and caught a cab. Clearly fidgety, Sherlock glanced over at John several times. Finally, John asked, "What is it?"

"Aren't you going to ask where we're going? How I deduced the exact location? How I could possibly know as much as I do?" he pressed, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes.

John sighed and shook his head. "I've learned to stop questioning you every time you figure something out," he responded. When he saw Sherlock pout, he finally realised exactly what Sherlock wanted; he wanted to impress John – to give John a reason to praise him. "How were you ever able to figure it out?" he inquired, finally giving in.

Excited, Sherlock said, "I had Mycroft give me access to the surveillance videos. He's willing to do nearly anything to get that million quid back, after all. Once I got access, I found the second suspect and was able to follow him back to his flat. He was very clever; I almost lost him several times while trying to track him."

"As if anyone could outsmart Sherlock Holmes," John responded. Sherlock looked at him expectantly, and he barely managed to keep himself from sighing. Of course that would not be good enough. "And once again, you were completely brilliant. Absolutely extraordinary. What would Scotland Yard do without you?"

Sherlock smiled as he heard this before relaxing in his seat. "What _would_ Scotland Yard do without me, John?" he asked. John knew it was a rhetorical question. After a moment's pause, he continued, "God, they would all be so lost. Think of how many people would have been falsely accused and sent to prison, or never captured, or even murdered if I hadn't been there."

Chuckling under his breath, John sarcastically replied, "It's good to know you remain humble despite all of that."

Clearly not paying attention, Sherlock continued, "You know, they probably should appreciate what I do for them more. They should be more like you, John."

"Oh, no," John answered. "Your ego gets inflated enough from my compliments. You do not need an entire division of people praising you. Just one person is enough."

Sherlock smirked as he heard this. "Oh, don't worry. Your compliments would still mean more to me than all of Scotland Yard's. They're a bunch of idiots anyway."

"You call me an idiot all the time, Sherlock," John pointed out.

Nodding, Sherlock replied, "Yes, but at least you're interesting."

"How generous of you," John remarked dryly. Even so, he could not keep the smile from spreading across his face. That was the highest form of praise he could receive from Sherlock.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock added, "I meant everything I said, you know. It could only be you."

"Be quiet or people will talk," John answered, casting a wary glance at the cab driver.

Sherlock pressed his lips together in distaste but caught John's signal. Instead of pushing the matter further anyway, he just sat back in his seat and looked out the window. It took approximately fifteen more minutes before the taxi came to a stop. As John paid for the taxi, Sherlock practically leapt out of the seat. He rushed after Sherlock, determined not to fall behind this time. They reached the flat, and John noticed a crack in the door frame by where the bolt would be. Heart sinking, he had seen this plenty of times before after entering a building behind an infantry team. Quickly, he drew out his handgun and shoved Sherlock behind him. Sherlock shot him a confused glance but said nothing. John checked the doorknob to find it unlocked.

"You do not enter until I tell you it's clear. Do you understand, Sherlock?" John hissed.

Sherlock gave a single nod and took a step back. Slowly opening the door, John slid into the room quietly. He hesitated a moment as his eyes adjusted slightly to the darkness. After checking around the entrance hall, John slipped into the first room. He blinked several times in hopes that it would make his eyes dilate faster. Suddenly, John tripped over something. Adrenaline rushed through his system as he quickly rolled out of the fall, twisting around and pointing his gun at the now visible lump on the floor. His eyes locked on the figure, and he quickly recognised the silhouette of a dead body.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock called out.

John rose to his feet and answered, "Yeah, I'm fine… but you'll want to get in here."

The door opened, lighting the hallway for a moment before Sherlock turned on the light. Wincing, John turned away and let his eyes adjust again. He then turned back to find a man sprawled out on the floor. Blood pooled around his head, and his medium length brunette hair was matted and pressed down against his skull. Squatting down, John stared at the back of the head for a moment before finally realising that part of it was concave.

"Another murder," John noted, rising to his feet. "I'm calling Lestrade."

Much to John's surprise, Sherlock answered, "Fine."

John found Lestrade's number and called it. After three rings, he heard a groggy, "'Ello?" from the other end.

"Lestrade, it's John Watson," John said. "Sherlock figured out where the second suspect was, and we arrived here to find him dead. I figured you would want to be the first one informed."

"Wait, what?" Lestrade asked, sounding more awake now. "What second suspect?"

Confused, John asked, "Didn't Sherlock tell you?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue and snatched the phone away from John. After a moment's hesitation, he said sarcastically, "Well, of course he managed to pay the blackmailers! The money did not just disappear into thin air, after all." He paused for another moment. "I managed to find one of the blackmailers, but we arrived here too late. He's been murdered as well." After another second or two, Sherlock was clearly exasperated. "Do you use that brain of yours at all? Yes, I said _murdered_. Anderson's an idiot if he thinks it's anything else. You're an idiot, too, if you believe that. He was killed by the blackmailers, but the reason why is still unclear." Frowning, Sherlock said, "I'll text you the address." With that, he snapped the mobile shut and quickly sent an SMS. "We've got fifteen minutes before those morons arrive."

"Alright," John said, stepping back. Sherlock would tell him when he needed him.

Squatting down, Sherlock began examining the body. He circled it twice, each time barely touching or moving different body parts or pieces of clothing. After a couple minutes, he stood up and motioned for John to do his examination. John kneeled down next to the body and leaned in closer to the head. Brain matter could be seen and bits of skull broken and stabbing into the wound. "Cause of death appears to be a blow to the back of the head. The murder weapon is flat and sturdy, going by the wound shape and depth," John stated before touching the hand and wrist. They were cold and stiff. Checking his watch, he was surprised to see it was almost five in the morning. "He's been dead since 10-12 o'clock yesterday morning."

"So he collects the money, kills the bank robber, brings it back here, and waits for his accomplice to come. He thinks that they're going to split the money, but his accomplice came here with the intentions to kill him. No doubt the money is now with the killer," he said as he looked around the flat. "And he was killed with a cricket bat. Crude, which means that this was a last minute idea, but effective, which means that this man was not going to leave this flat alive. So what changed?"

John knew it was a rhetorical question. Even if it wasn't, Sherlock would be the only one who had a chance of answering it. "I think another call to Mycroft is in order," he said. "Maybe we can track the killer as well."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured in response as he pulled out his mobile. He sent a quick text and slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Keep watch. I'm going to look through the rest of the flat. Signal me when Lestrade gets here," he ordered.

John moved over to the window and looked out it. The sky was beginning to lighten, marking the beginning of a new day. Rubbing his eyes, John shook his head as he smiled softly. Another day with Sherlock had gone by; his life seemed to be moving faster than ever with Sherlock by his side, ironic since this was when he wished everything would slow down. Suddenly, a patrol car caught his attention. "Sherlock, they're here," he called back.

Emerging from the bedroom, Sherlock said, "Let's go. If we wait until they get here, they'll keep us here all day with questions." John nodded in response and followed Sherlock out of the room. Heading down the hall, they turned the corner and heard the lift doors open. Lestrade's distinctive voice barked out orders as Sherlock opened the door to the stairs. When they made it to the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock looked back at John. "Mycroft's sending the footage now."

"And thus begins another day with Sherlock Holmes," John muttered, chuckling under his breath.


	3. The Third Domino Falls

"No, no, no, no, no!" Sherlock shouted at his laptop before slamming it shut.

Startled, John looked into the living room and asked, "What's wrong?"

"He just disappeared," Sherlock snapped, motioning wildly at the laptop. "He wore a scarf and baseball cap the entire time and kept his face hidden from all the cameras. I could barely keep track of him, and then he went down an alleyway without cameras. Not surprisingly, that alleyway happens to lead out onto another street without cameras. He must have grabbed a taxi, because I can't find him anywhere."

John frowned. "Maybe Lestrade will figure something out," he suggested.

Scoffing, Sherlock looked at him derisively. "The day I depend on the _Yard_ to close a case is the day I should retire," he replied haughtily before flopping onto the couch. Suddenly, he perked up, "Wait, that girl – the one who was kidnapped – she might have some information." He rose to his feet and declared, "We need to question her."

"Sherlock," John called out, which actually made his flatmate stop in his tracks. "Call Lestrade before you just head over there. If she's unconscious or not stable enough to be questioned, we'll just be wasting our time."

Sherlock scowled and flopped back onto the couch. Knowing Sherlock had no intention of calling Lestrade, John dialled the number. Lestrade answered after three rings, "Hello."

"It's John Watson. Sherlock and I were wondering if the daughter was doing well," John said, leaning back into the counter.

Lestrade paused a moment, and John felt his heart sink. "She made it to the hospital in stable condition. They discovered she had been poisoned and thought they had managed to get it out of her system in time. Unfortunately, the poison had taken too much of a toll. She passed away 10 minutes ago. I just got the call," he replied.

Letting out a long breath, John nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. He felt slightly ill – the same ill feeling he got every time he thought about a soldier or friend he lost on the battlefield. The same ill feeling that haunted him when he thought about every patient that had ever died under his care. And he could only wonder if she would have been saved had he told Lestrade about the photo. "I understand. I'll tell Sherlock," he said after a moment's hesitation.

"Wait, John," Lestrade continued, stopping John from hanging up. "You still there?"

"Yeah," John answered, his voice a bit hoarse.

Lestrade said, "I know what you did was right; I don't like it, but no one could have figured out where she was faster than Sherlock. But just because I think so does not mean that's the overall opinion. So tell Sherlock to tread lightly, will you? Anderson and Donovan are looking for any excuse to throw him in jail, even if it's just for the night."

"I'll warn him," John confirmed, feeling slightly reaffirmed. "Thank you, Detective Inspector." Without waiting for an answer, he hung up the phone. Sherlock looked at John expectantly, acting as if he could not just gleam all the information he needed from a single glance. "The daughter passed away about ten minutes ago from poison. Lestrade wants you to keep a low profile for a while. The Yard is looking for a scapegoat… and you're the perfect target."

Sherlock shrugged, clearly indifferent to the threat. "They have nothing on me. _I_ didn't kill the girl, after all," he replied, rising to his feet and grabbing his coat. "So let's go."

"To where exactly?" John inquired.

"To St. Bart's. I need to examine the body as soon as possible," he responded, his tone implying that it should be obvious.

John grabbed his jumper and followed Sherlock out of the building. Quickly, they hopped into a cab and were en route to St. Bart's. John looked out the window, watching London pass them by, and heard Sherlock call out his name. He turned to look back at Sherlock. "What is it?" he inquired.

"I told you not to blame yourself if she was found dead," Sherlock said. "Telling Lestrade would have done nothing but hinder the investigation."

Looking away, John responded, "I know that. I know that no one could have found her as quickly as you did. It just reminds me of-" His voice trailed as he forced back those memories. "Never mind."

"Afghanistan?" Sherlock asked, his voice barely audible.

John checked to see if the driver was paying attention. He wasn't. "Yes," he muttered before looking back out of the window.

"You know," Sherlock said quietly, "that thing you did last time – after your bad dream – that chat we had – you could always do it again. If you wanted to, I mean. I wouldn't mind."

Smiling softly, John chuckled under his breath as he listened to Sherlock try to be a proper friend. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you," he responded, not looking away from the window.

"Okay. Good," Sherlock said. After a moment of silence, he asked, "So are you going to talk to me about it?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock," John exclaimed, nearly laughing at the consulting detective's impatience. "You've barely given me a minute to think about it! And if I do, I'm not going to be pouring out my heart and soul to you in a taxi of all places."

"Rude," Sherlock said, trying and failing to keep himself from smiling.

John rolled his eyes. Luckily, the taxi had made it to St. Bart's. After throwing the appropriate amount of money into the front passenger's seat, Sherlock all but shoved John out of the taxi. They headed inside to find Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan all standing in the lobby. Standing up straight, Sherlock strode forward.

"And what is _he_ doing here?" Donovan spat venomously as soon as she saw them.

Lestrade shrugged. "It's a public building, Sally. He can come and go as he pleases. The lobby is hardly a crime scene, after all," he answered smoothly.

"You know he's not here to just pay a visit," Anderson hissed, disgust written all over his face. "He should be arrested for obstructing a police investigation! That woman very well could have _died_ because of him."

John bristled in anger as he heard this. Of course they were blaming Sherlock for her death – because there's no way that it could be their fault or the fault of the hospital. Suddenly, he felt a hand squeeze his elbow. Looking up, John noticed Sherlock barely shake his head. He quelled his anger and held his tongue. If Sherlock didn't want him to say anything, he wouldn't.

"Lestrade, Sally, Anderson," Sherlock greeted.

Sally snapped, "What are you doing here, _freak_?"

"I'm here to figure out what you missed," Sherlock responded curtly.

Anderson sneered, "I didn't miss anything, Sherlock. She died by poison injected into her system by the kidnappers – no mystery there."

"That's your problem, Anderson. You always assume you're right," Sherlock stated.

Scoffing, Anderson retorted, "You do the same thing!"

"No, I always know I'm right," Sherlock corrected.

In hopes of keeping this conversation from coming to blows, John cut in, "Lestrade, would you mind if we took a quick look at the body?"

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably as everyone's eyes rested on him. "If it leads to finding where that money went, I'm not in a position to object," he finally said.

Anderson and Donovan were clearly appalled by the decision. On the other hand, Sherlock smiled sweetly and replied, "Then we'll get to it."

"Not yet," Lestrade said. "The boyfriend's paying his last respects. He was here when she died."

"Ah," Sherlock answered noncommittally. He stepped back and responded, "Then we'll just wait until he's done then."

At hearing this, Anderson and Donovan exchanged looks. Donovan looked back at Sherlock and asked, "That's it?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock inquired.

"No questions about what the point might be? No comments about how that's pointless? No observation that she won't hear him because she's dead?" Donovan pressed, sounding a bit awed.

Confused, Sherlock responded, "No, not at all. Mourning the loss of a loved one is important in our society."

"Have you ever mourned?" Anderson inquired. When Sherlock blinked and stood up straight, Anderson sneered, "No, of course not. You have to know how to _love_ in order to mourn."

John stiffened as he heard this. How could they stand there and ridicule Sherlock when they themselves showed no decency at all towards him? Yes, Sherlock was difficult to deal with, but that was only because he honestly did not understand. They knew better, and they still felt entitled to drag him down. Just as John was about to snap at Anderson, Sherlock said, "I understand the concepts and have experienced the chemical reactions that lead to these emotions."

"You _loved_ someone?" Anderson inquired, snickering a bit. "Oh, that's rich. Do tell. Was she beautiful? Did she break your heart? Did she even know you existed?"

Sherlock frowned. "First of all, your verb tense is incorrect; it should be present tense. Second of all, I'm not referring to a _woman_, and you're shallow to automatically believe that my only companion could be of the opposite gender. Third of all, do not insult me by using such a word to describe my feelings; _love_ cannot even begin to encompass what our relationship is. And finally, you're hypocritical – having an affair with a man who's married to the woman he supposedly _loves_. It's because of adulterers like yourselves that I refuse to use that term. _Love _has proven to be meaningless in this age and society."

Anderson and Donovan were utterly infuriated while Lestrade looked amused. Flushing, John turned away nonchalantly in hopes that they wouldn't press for more information. "So? Who could possibly love a freak like you?" Donovan snapped. John was shocked and relieved that they didn't realise that it was him.

"Sir?" a deep voice suddenly called out, catching everyone's attention. The man in question stood just shorter than Sherlock but was more built than Sherlock ever could be; sandy blonde hair complimented his light brown eyes, which were bloodshot. "I've said my goodbyes. Please, find whoever did this to her."

Lestrade nodded. "We will, Mr Durant," he promised. "In fact, we have an employee from a boat rental shop who informed us that two men came in two days ago to rent a boat. He says he could identify the second kidnapper if he saw a photo of him, and he's already identified one of the kidnappers, who was found dead this morning. So we will find out who did this and bring that person to justice."

"Which room is she in?" Sherlock inquired, cutting into the conversation. John winced at the timing of the question. No matter how much he tried, he could not get it into Sherlock's head when it was proper or improper to ask something.

"Room 106," Durant answered.

Without another word, Sherlock walked off. Donovan rolled her eyes before turning back to Durant. Quickly, Lestrade said, "We're very sorry for your loss, and we'll contact you as soon as we get a break in the case."

"Thank you," Durant muttered.

Lestrade nodded to John. "Have a nice day," he said, winking at him. John flushed. Lestrade knew _exactly_ who Sherlock had been talking about earlier. At least he would keep quiet about it.

Making a mental note to talk to Sherlock later about discretion, John turned to Durant. "The Yard has their best working on the case right now. If there's anyone who can solve what happened, it's Sherlock Holmes," he comforted, knowing it would not help Durant with his grief. Still, he had to do something to console the devastated boyfriend. "He'll figure out who did this, trust me."

"Thank you, Mr…" Durant began to say, his voice trailing.

John held out his hand. "John Watson," he filled in.

"Mr Watson," Durant finished, shaking his hand. "Thank you, but I'm afraid words don't mean much to me right now."

"Of course," John murmured, understanding. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Nodding, Durant turned and stalked across the lobby. John frowned before following after Sherlock. When he arrived at the room, he found Sherlock hovering over the body and examining something with his magnifying glass. John leaned in the doorway, waiting for Sherlock to finish examining the body. For a long moment, he gazed at the face of the woman. The last time he saw her, her hair had been uncombed and her eyes wide with fear. Now, she looked peaceful.

"John, come here," Sherlock ordered, cutting into John's thoughts. He pushed himself upright and walked over to where Sherlock was. Handing him the pocket magnifying glass, Sherlock said, "Take a look at her left elbow."

John examined the elbow to find two puncture marks on it. Frowning, he said, "It looks like the poison was injected into her system."

"Yes, but the key piece of information is how many times," Sherlock stated.

Shaking his head, John responded, "There are two puncture marks, yes, but who is to say that maybe they weren't sure they didn't pierce the skin properly the first time and punctured it a second time."

"Each puncture was precise and in the median cubital vein," Sherlock pointed out, beginning to pace. "Which is peculiar, don't you think?"

Confused, John inquired, "What do you mean?"

"This woman was kidnapped. Held against her will. She would know that they were going to kill her. But there are no defensive wounds. She didn't fight them as they injected her, or there would be more puncture marks – maybe even a needle broken under her skin. So why didn't she put up a fight?" Sherlock pressed as he walked around her.

John suggested, "Maybe they injected her after she fell asleep?"

"A possibility, yes, but rather improbable," Sherlock replied.

Waiting a moment, John pressed, "I take it you have a theory."

"I have several," Sherlock answered. "Did you hear what Lestrade said earlier – about the boat rental?"

John nodded. "What about it?"

"Don't you think that's a bit amateurish? To rent a boat and risk being identified?" Sherlock asked as he continued pacing.

Shrugging, John replied, "They probably used cash and an alias in order to cover their tracks. Besides, you heard Lestrade. The employee could only identify the kidnappers if he saw a photo of them again. He obviously doesn't have that great of a memory."

"Yes, but he already identified the man we found this morning as one of the kidnappers," Sherlock pointed out. "They let themselves be seen – opened up to the chance of being identified."

Exasperated, John inquired, "What are you trying to get at?"

"We're missing something – a key piece of information," Sherlock informed him. "I had assumed that these were professionals. Slowly but surely, they are proving me wrong at every turn. Thornton's death had been clever, yes, but everything else has been sloppy. It makes me wonder if they had been planning to kill Thornton all along or if it had been an accident."

John frowned as he thought about this. "So then they're amateurs. How does that help us find out where the money is?"

"It doesn't," Sherlock confessed. "Not yet, anyway." Frowning, he left the room without saying another word. Quickly, John followed him out of St. Bart's. Instead of hailing a cab, Sherlock proceeded down the street. John trailed after him, unsure as to where they were going. "You were upset earlier," he suddenly said.

Taken by surprise, John inquired, "I'm sorry. What?"

"When I was telling Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson about us," Sherlock clarified.

John responded, "I wasn't upset. It's just-" He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. How could he express everything he was feeling… everything he was thinking? Could he even make Sherlock understand? "The way you tell everyone that we're together is like how someone would normally talk about the weather," John said. "You say it like it's nothing – like it's no big deal."

"Because it isn't," Sherlock answered, sounding a little perplexed.

John felt rebuked by this. "Well, it is to me, Sherlock," he replied. "I don't even know what we are, and you're telling anyone who even implies something that we're together."

"What do you mean, what we are?" Sherlock inquired, still confused. "We're together."

Shaking his head, John replied, "It's not that easy."

"Well, why not?" Sherlock asked.

John found himself at a loss for words. After a moment's hesitation, he snapped, "Because it just isn't, Sherlock. 'We're together' does not define our relationship."

"And why do we have to define it?" Sherlock challenged, clearly struggling to understand.

Covering his eyes with a hand, John took in a deep breath and released it. "Because _I_ would sure like to know what we are, Sherlock. We're not best mates anymore – haven't been for a long time – and yet you refuse to touch me unless it's for one of your bloody experiments. You act as if nothing has changed between the two of us, but lately you've been talking about our relationship like you've figured everything out." As he spoke, John felt uncertainty well up in the forefront of his mind. Was he making something out of nothing? Quickly, he hailed a cab. When Sherlock went to get in with him, John stopped him. "No, Sherlock, this cab is mine. I need some time alone to think." Sherlock recoiled, and John could see the hurt in his eyes – like a little kid who had just upset his parents for the first time. Closing the door, Sherlock stepped away from the cab. John turned away and gave the driver the address for their flat.

As the cab drove off, John covered his face with his hands. What was he doing, running away from a problem like that? He was no better than Harry! Even so, he needed a second to think; Sherlock was there almost every waking moment, after all, and John could not think with Sherlock's observing eyes locked onto him. So he wasn't really running away; he was collecting his thoughts so he could approach the subject later. Letting out a deep, shuddering breath, John closed his eyes and concentrated. Sherlock had used the simple term "together" to describe their relationship, but that was not good enough for John. When asked to explain what he meant, Sherlock had told Molly that it meant they were exclusive. And that was good enough for John. The most he had ever dared to hope for was to remain by Sherlock's side for the rest of his life, which was not that far-fetched since Sherlock had no interest in being romantically involved with anyone. But now they were barrelling head-first into uncharted territory. Neither of them knew what they were doing, and Sherlock was charging in a lot faster than John wanted. So that's what John needed to tell Sherlock. He needed Sherlock to slow down for a moment – to communicate with him so they could manage as mature of a relationship as possible despite the fact that Sherlock was in it.

"Sir, we're here," the cabbie called out, catching John's attention.

Quickly, John paid the cabbie and hopped out of the vehicle. He headed up to the flat and entered to find Sherlock standing in the living room. Stunned, John almost asked how he was beaten to the flat when he noticed that Sherlock was gasping for breath. John smiled softly; Sherlock must have sprinted the entire way here to beat John back to the flat. Their eyes met, and Sherlock's entire body relaxed. In three strides, Sherlock stood directly in front of John. John's breath hitched just before he felt Sherlock's warm lips press against his own. A shot of electricity rushed through his system, and adrenaline coursed through his veins. In that moment, John forgot everything – all his uncertainties and apprehensions disappeared. As he felt Sherlock's arms wrap around him, John instinctively reached up and locked his arms behind Sherlock's head. He quickly deepened the kiss, his tongue fighting with Sherlock's for dominance. Hands locking in Sherlock's hair, John pulled Sherlock closer, needing more contact from him. Sherlock chuckled deeply, and his lips vibrated against John's. John lashed his tongue out at Sherlock's, invading his mouth. Sherlock succumbed for a moment before he slowly pulled away from the kiss. Dropping his arms down, John went to pull back only to find Sherlock's arms still firmly locked around him.

John subconsciously licked his lips, causing Sherlock to smile in satisfaction. Letting out a sigh of relief, Sherlock murmured, "So you're not upset with me?"

"I was never upset with you, Sherlock," John responded, quite baffled. "Just sometimes I need a moment alone to think. I figured you would understand. After all, you throw me out of the room every time you need to enter your 'mind palace.'"

Frowning, Sherlock replied, "You've never pushed me away before. I was worried that you were finally tired of dealing with me." His eyes locked onto John's, and John could see an underlying dread in them. Sherlock was afraid – but not because John was getting tired of him. He was scared of what it implied; he was scared John would leave him.

"How long did any flatmate last?" John inquired.

Sherlock paused. "Didn't have many before you, but not nearly as long as you have," he finally answered.

"Exactly. If I can deal with body parts in the refrigerator and experiments at all hours of the day, it's going to take a lot more than you telling the world that we're together to drive me away," he reassured. Sherlock smiled as he heard this and finally released John. "Speaking of which, you talk as if you've got it all figured out, so… what exactly are we?"

Pulling away, Sherlock headed towards the kitchen. That enigmatic smile remained on his face. "You mean you haven't realised it yet?" he asked, amusement colouring his voice.

Scowling, John pressed, "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I just assumed that with your experience in relationships that you would have realised it by now," Sherlock replied casually. "I mean, even I figured out what we were."

John responded, "Then tell me."

"What fun would that be, John? Besides, you're an intelligent man. Think about it, and I'm sure you'll figure it out," Sherlock stated before sliding into his bedroom.

Dumbfounded, John was left standing in the living room, staring at the door Sherlock had just closed on him. Shaking his head softly, he turned away from the door and sat down on the sofa. He was never really going to understand Sherlock Holmes, no matter how hard he tried. And yet John Watson was okay with that. Part of the appeal of Sherlock Holmes was his ambiguity.


	4. The Fourth Domino Falls

"Would you like some biscuits, John?" Mrs Hudson inquired as John sat down in front of the telly. Sherlock was on another maniac rampage in their flat, so he had sought sanctuary in Mrs Hudson's flat.

Grinning brightly, John responded, "That would be wonderful, Mrs Hudson. Thank you."

"Oh, it's no problem, my dear," Mrs Hudson responded, smiling softly. "Did you and Sherlock have a little domestic?"

John shook his head. "No, nothing like that. He's working on a case right now, and I would only get in his way," he said, only telling a half-truth.

The full truth included the fact that John always wanted to take some time out of his week to spend it with Mrs Hudson. She did not have too many people in her life, and she was often left alone when Sherlock and John were swanning in and out of the flat at all hours of the day. Since he knew what it was like to have no one, John wanted Mrs Hudson to never feel that way. He always wanted her to feel like she had a family, even if not by blood, who cared about her just living in the flat above. That was also the reason why he was willing to watch so much Connie Price reruns, no matter how irritating he found the woman.

"Oh, I see," she murmured as he brought him some chocolate chip biscuits. "He is a peculiar one, isn't he? A right genius. Although I do wish he would stop putting dead body parts in my fridge."

John laughed. "There's no chance of that happening, Mrs Hudson. I'm sorry," he stated before taking a bite of a biscuit. As always, her baking was fantastic. He quickly raised the bitten biscuit and added, "Delicious."

"Just made them last night, I did," she said. Her eye brightened up, and John sensed a rant about to happen. "I used to make them all the time for my husband. He refused to eat any other type, you see. Always going on about how the chocolate brought everything together. Wouldn't eat any after the chocolate chips hardened, though. Bit strange, isn't it?"

Smiling and nodding, John turned back to the television without another word. He scanned through the channels, hoping to find something interesting before he stumbled across another rerun of Connie Price. Her fame had skyrocketed after her death for whatever reason. Mrs Hudson headed back into the kitchen to pour some tea. Returning with a tray in hand, she set it down on the coffee table in front of him. John grabbed one of the cups and took a sip. "What would you like to watch?" he inquired politely as he continued to flip through the channels. Subconsciously, he reached forward and grabbed another biscuit.

"Oh, I don't care," she replied honestly as she sat down in a large, plush chair.

John had just stumbled across a murder mystery. He almost changed the channel out of habit. After all, when John watched anything that had to do with a murder or puzzle, Sherlock would look over and solve the entire case in the matter of minutes. John had given up watching such shows even though he enjoyed them. However, he was with Mrs Hudson. She would be just as loss as John while watching the show. So they settled in front of the television and began to watch the murder unfold. The show first set up the background information – a woman was murdered after the husband found out that she was cheating on him with his best mate. The police suspected the husband killed the wife since he had the clear motivation. However, John found it illogical due to the husband's air-tight alibi. Besides, the husband and wife had just started reconciling. His money was on the best mate, who had just been dumped by the wife. Mrs Hudson shared her opinion every now and again, and it aligned with John's perfectly.

Suddenly, they heard a loud _thump_ from upstairs. Both paused and looked at each other, each deciding whether they should risk calling up to see what happened. After a moment's silence, footsteps sprinted across the floor and started thudding quickly down the stairs. "John!" Sherlock yelled. A moment later, the footsteps stopped, and there was a loud banging on the door. "John, there's been another murder. Let's go."

John hesitated. He suspected the best mate, but he could not be certain. Sherlock, on the other hand, would be able to figure everything out. Wanting to know if he was right or not, he quickly replied, "I have to figure out who killed this woman, Sherlock!"

With that, Sherlock opened the door and looked in at the television. "Really, John? The best mate did it," he stated, confirming what John already suspected. "Now come on." With that, Sherlock ducked back into the hallway.

Rising to his feet, John nodded to Mrs Hudson. "Thank you for the biscuits, Mrs Hudson. Unfortunately, I have to go."

"Of course," Mrs Hudson responded. "Go. Sherlock doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Goodbye, Mrs Hudson," John said before he hurried out of the flat.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking the way to the front door. "Come on then. Let's go," he chirped, clearly in a fantastic mood. Murders did that to him. Spinning on his heels, he headed towards the front door.

"Who died?" John inquired as he followed Sherlock onto the street.

Grinning widely, Sherlock answered, "The boat rental employee. The only one who could identify the kidnappers."

"And you believe he was killed by the kidnapper," John stated.

Sherlock raised a hand to hail a cab. "Obviously," he responded as the cab pulled over. "Which makes this case even more interesting."

"Interesting?" John echoed as he slid into the cab after Sherlock.

Sherlock handed the cabbie a piece of paper before responding, "Yes, interesting." When John stared at him in anticipation, he sighed and continued, "There are two types of serial killers. The first kind have family issues – abuse, negligence, or of the sort. The second kind are attention seekers. They _want_ to be caught. They want to become infamous." He then looked over at John. "This kidnapper does not fall into those two categories. He became a serial killer because he felt he had to. The first death might have been planned or it might have been accidental. Either way, it happened. And because it happened, it started a chain reaction. It brought attention to the kidnapping, which might have never been found out otherwise, and now he knows he cannot leave any witnesses behind. In order to evade police, he had to keep killing. And with every kill, Scotland Yard becomes more determined to find him."

"Sort of like a devil's circle," John said.

Smiling, Sherlock concurred, "A bit like that, yes."

Both men fell silent. Looking out the window, John watched as London slowly passed them by. He wondered what it was like for everyone else living in London – to not have their lives revolve around killings and Sherlock Holmes. Part of him thought it would have to be incredibly dull while the other part criticised him for sounding like Sherlock. Suddenly, John felt something warm grasp his hand. He looked over at Sherlock in confusion to find the consulting detective staring out of the other window. Baffled, John gazed down at their hands before glancing up to see if the cabbie could see. He couldn't. Looking out the window again, John shifted his hand and intertwined their fingers. Although he did not understand what Sherlock was thinking, John planned on appreciating what affection he could receive from the normally asocial man. They remained like that – silent yet connected – for the rest of the cab ride. When they stopped, Sherlock slowly pulled away and reached forward to pay the cab fair.

John slipped out of the cab and immediately saw the police tape. In seconds, Sherlock strode past John and headed into the building without hesitation. John followed quietly, nodding civilly to each officer as he passed. They arrived in the bedroom to find the body sprawled out on the bed. Clearly waiting for them, Lestrade and Anderson stood towards the back of the room. Sherlock did not acknowledge them. Instead, he swooped in close to the body to examine it. So John stepped in to make up for what Sherlock lacked.

"Afternoon," he greeted, nodding to the two of them.

Lestrade forced a smile to his face. "Afternoon," he replied. "At some point, we need to see each other outside of a crime scene."

"You mean like drinks?" John clarified, surprised that Lestrade was interested. He had always assumed that their relationship would remain strictly professional.

Sherlock cut in, "Tell Mycroft that he should do his own legwork when he wants information."

Startled, Lestrade quickly responded, "Actually, it was my idea to have drinks."

"I'm sure it was… after Mycroft suggested that you get close to John to figure out if I was telling you everything I know," Sherlock finished. "And I am, and John would not tell you any different. Your lack of faith in me is astonishing, Lestrade. Even after every case I've ever solved for you, you still don't trust me."

Anderson scoffed. "Trust you? You're a sociopath! That makes you untrustworthy by definition. There's no way you'd put anyone else above yourself," he sneered. "Who would be senseless enough to trust you?"

"I would be," John countered, his voice strong and steady. He was tired of Anderson's utter bullshit. Anderson looked directly at him, and John stared at him defiantly. Eventually, Anderson broke the gaze and looked down at the floor. John smirked victoriously before turning back to Sherlock, who glanced up at him and smiled softly.

"John," Sherlock beckoned.

After checking with Lestrade that it alright, John circled the body slowly. The victim was in his late 20s, lithe yet firm build, with no obvious medical issues. The corpse was face down in the blood-soaked bed, which meant that the victim was most likely killed in the bedroom. Defensive wounds on the knuckles and arms meant he fought back. Glancing down the clothed body, John made out three… no, four stab wounds in the back. None of them had hit a major organ or artery, which meant that the killer was not familiar with the anatomy of the human body. "The victim died from blood loss," he concluded.

"Very good," Sherlock muttered under his breath. Straightening out, he continued a bit louder, "The killer has to be the kidnapper."

"_Has_ to be?" Anderson repeated incredulously.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock responded, "Yes. Has to be. The killer was emotionally charged during the killing. His need to ensure the victim's death caused him to overkill it. And the stabbing itself reveals to us plenty about the killer. A stabbing is a personal way to kill someone. You have to be up close to stab someone. It emphasises just how important it was to the killer to be sure that the employee was dead. And there is no way that this murder is just a coincidence, so the killer has to be the kidnapper."

"Great," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "So the only person who can identify the kidnapper is dead, and we have no new leads on who the kidnapper might be? That's just brilliant."

Shrugging, Sherlock answered, "Isn't your forensics team supposed to process the crime scene for clues that lead you to the killer? I thought that was your job description."

"And we will," Anderson snapped proudly. "And we'll figure out who did this well before you do."

Sherlock smirked as he heard this. "Best of luck then," he stated before heading out of the room. Naturally, John followed right behind him.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled, hurrying after them. Sherlock stopped and turned around to face the detective inspector. "I have to ask this, and you need to be completely honest with me. Are you keeping anything from me? And let me remind you what I said the last time you did."

Blinking several times, Sherlock responded, "What would I hide from you about a murder? I do not believe anything here will help me find the one million quid, which is what you asked me to investigate in the first place."

"Alright," Lestrade stated before taking a step back. "If you get anything, tell me." Sherlock gave a curt nod and turned away. As John went to follow him, he felt a firm grip on his arm. Looking back, he saw Lestrade giving him a stern look. He knew exactly what Lestrade was trying to convey: _If he is hiding something, inform me immediately._

With one curt nod, John shook Lestrade off and followed Sherlock out of the building. Once they were back in the cab, John noted, "You have an unhealthy habit of hiding important information from Lestrade."

"And you have a habit of helping me do so," Sherlock answered nonchalantly.

John smiled. "But of course. I chose my side a long time ago," he responded. "So what is it this time? Did you deduce who the killer was?"

"I have a theory," Sherlock confessed. "However, I have to wait."

Raising an eyebrow, John clarified, "_You_ are actually going to wait for something?"

"Unfortunately, there is no other way," Sherlock explained, pressing his lips together. "But I predict that something will happen by the end of the day."

John asked, "Then what are we going to do until then?"

The cab stopped suddenly, and John looked outside to see a very familiar restaurant. "Eat," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

"You are going to eat?" John inquired sceptically.

Sherlock gave him _that _look – the look that informed him he was an idiot. "Of course not. I won't need to eat for at least another day," he stated. "But you are bound to be hungry, only having eaten Mrs Hudson's biscuits."

At hearing this, John realised that he was starving. He grinned and leapt out of the cab, leaving Sherlock behind to pay the fair. Bursting into the restaurant, John quickly located Angelo, who grinned widely and said, "Welcome, John! Where's Sherlock?" As if on cue, Sherlock opened the front door. "Ah, there you are! Something to eat?"

"Just for me," John answered. "Whatever is the fastest to make. I'm famished."

Nodding, Angelo headed back into the kitchen. Sherlock and John sat at a table in the back of the restaurant, sectioning themselves off from the other patrons. A few minutes later, Angelo emerged from the kitchen with a plate of fish and chips. John smiled as the plate was set down in front of him. Eating the first chip, John barely kept himself from groaning in pure bliss.

"You're leaving very little to the imagination as to what our first night together is going to be like," Sherlock suddenly stated and grinned widely.

Heart racing, John choked on the chip and coughed in order to dislodge it. Eyes watering, he rasped, "Why would you ever say something like that?"

"To see your reaction," Sherlock responded. "Quite predictable, actually."

John rolled his eyes and focused pointedly on his food. After a few moments of awkward silence, he murmured, "So we're going to-?" He let his voice trail meaningfully.

"Have sex?" Sherlock finished for him. His voice was too loud for John's liking, and he quickly glanced around the restaurant to see if anyone heard. "Yes. Does that really surprise you?"

Flushing, John ducked his head and looked back down at his fish and chips. He suddenly did not feel hungry anymore. "Well, yes," he answered quietly. "You just seem so – I mean – you are so…" He stopped speaking for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts properly.

"Aloof? Detached? Dispassionate?" Sherlock suggested, only half-jesting.

"Asexual," John said, unable to think of a polite way to say it.

Sherlock smiled as he heard this and sat back in his seat. "Because I told you I was married to my work?" he inquired.

"There is that," John conceded before eating another chip.

After a moment, Sherlock pressed, "And what else is there?"

"Well, I mean, look at you, Sherlock!" John exclaimed. Several customers glanced in their direction, and John felt his face get warmer. After a minute or so, John continued, "You have never shown any interest in sex before. How was I supposed to know that you were expecting for us to eventually take that step?"

Obviously confused, Sherlock asked, "Isn't that a normal step in a relationship?"

"It is, Sherlock. Of course it is," John confirmed, his mind still whirling with the information. "But it's _you_, for God's sake. I never even entertained the thought."

Sherlock quickly retorted, "We both know that's a lie."

Eyes widening, John tried to cover his now beet red face. Of course Sherlock would know about _that_ – about what he did in his bedroom when he thought no one could hear him. He probably observed a difference in the way John poured his tea or something. And if he knew about John's feelings, it would not take much brain power to guess exactly what John fantasized.

"I meant that I never actually believed it would become reality," John corrected, his voice barely audible. Locking eyes with the consulting detective, he added, "And I was okay with that. It doesn't matter to me if we ever get to that stage, Sherlock. I'm content here."

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock clicked his tongue and crossed his arms over his chest. "For now," Sherlock finally corrected. "Your content here for now. But there will come a day when you overthink the relationship – when you analyse every little detail – and the lack of sex in our relationship will bother you."

"You can't possibly know that," John snapped.

Sherlock responded, "Yes, I can."

"How?" John challenged.

Looking him directly in the eyes, Sherlock answered, "Because that's exactly what happened to you when I stopped kissing you."

John's eyes widened as he processed this information. "You were experimenting on me?" he pressed, baffled. "Experimenting to see my reaction?"

"Yes. I needed to come to a conclusive decision about how to develop our relationship. It was quite revealing, actually. The longer the period between the kisses, the more your mood deteriorated. That had a tendency to lead to the deterioration of the relationship as well. I have to say that your all-time low is when you became insecure because of Molly," he explained.

Defensive, John set his jaw as he heard this. "I was _not_ insecure," he retorted.

"Oh, don't try to convince me that your indignity had nothing to do with the fact that I implied anyone could take your place by my side. I'm too clever for that," Sherlock responded haughtily. John shoved another chip in his mouth and tried to ignore the truth in Sherlock's statement. "I honestly thought you would be thrilled," he went on after a moment of silence.

"_Thrilled?_" John echoed, laughing as he heard this. Sherlock was really never going to understand. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm absolutely thrilled that the person I'm in a relationship with continuously performs experiments on me in order to make a point. I'm overjoyed to know the issues that I have – the mixed emotions that I can make no sense out of – can be examined and broken down by such a superior mind. And I'm ecstatic that our relationship will never go further than being one large scientific investigation into the heart of man!"

With that, he slammed his fists on the table and rose to his feet. He could feel his blood boiling underneath his skin as anger coursed through him. However, his heart felt like it was ripping in two. How had he managed to fall for such an insufferable man? He could feel his eyes heating up, and he blinked rapidly in order to force them down. He refused to cry over this. It was emasculating, and he would have none of it. Without another word, John spun on his heels and stormed out of the restaurant, planning to head for home. After a block, he heard his name being called. He refused to turn around. Abruptly, a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back. He turned to find Sherlock looking at him with pleading eyes.

"What is it?" John snapped, not in the mood to chat anymore.

After a couple moments of floundering for words, Sherlock finally whispered, "I'm sorry." John blinked in surprise at how authentic that apology was. "I'm no good, John. No good at this at all. I've never-" He stopped speaking and shook his head, clearly trying to collect his thoughts. "Relationships are not my area. So I don't know how to proceed."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, no one knows how to proceed!" John responded. "I don't even know what I am doing half the time. You have got to stop making everything so damn scientific. I don't want to feel like I'm just another one of your experiments, only useful until you've figured everything out. You just – you sometimes just need to listen to your heart." Sherlock appeared amused by this notion. "Laugh all you want, but that's what a relationship requires. You can still analyse whatever you want, but you have to be able to go with your gut instinct as well. Your instinct will tell you what to do when your brain can't."

Licking his lips, Sherlock frowned and turned away. "If I recall correctly, you're not too fond of my instinct," he pointed out.

"Then that's something we'll work on together," John answered reassuringly. "But these experiments must stop. You can observe all you want but do _not _try to make me uncertain or jealous again. Because I can and will make you regret it."

Sherlock smiled softly as he heard this. "I don't doubt it," he stated, shoving his hands into his pockets. John glanced down the street, debating on if his hunger outweighed his humiliation. At seeing his expression, Sherlock replied, "Let's go home. Mrs Hudson probably still has some biscuits left."

Nodding, John followed Sherlock as they turned away from the restaurant. "I'm sure Angelo appreciated that scene," he muttered, feeling embarrassed about the way he had acted.

"It wasn't nearly as grandiose as you imply. Our voices were no louder than the general atmosphere, and you didn't even slam the door on your way out. No one really noticed until I went running out after you," Sherlock informed him.

"That's reassuring," John said sarcastically, shaking his head. "I cannot believe we had our first domestic in the middle of a restaurant."

Sherlock said, "Well, it was bound to happen at some point. And there are always worse locations."

"Like a crime scene," John added, nodding in agreement. He began laughing as he pictured them having a spat with some poor dead sod between them. Sherlock began laughing as well, and the tension that remained from the dispute simply slipped away. "Lestrade would never let us within spitting distance of a crime scene again."

Shaking his head, Sherlock concurred, "Very good deduction."

John smiled at the praise. "I learned from the best," he answered, keeping his gaze locked on the street in front of him. He didn't have to look over to know that Sherlock was smiling at him. "So once we get back, we wait?"

"We wait," Sherlock confirmed, his tone darkening immediately. "But at least the case will be solved by tomorrow."

Sherlock's tone of voice made John wary, and he wondered just how much Sherlock was keeping from _him_. Suppressing those concerns, John quelled his concern. Sherlock would eventually let him in. Until then, he just needed to wait.


	5. The Fifth Domino is Struck

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs Hudson called into the flat as she tapped on the door.

John looked up from his keyboard. "Good evening, Mrs Hudson," he greeted.

"Good evening," she responded, smiling sweetly as she stepped into the room. The slight hobble in her gait gave her away; her hip was hurting her again. "Where's Sherlock? A letter for him arrived, and I forgot to give it to him earlier."

Thinking back a moment, John answered, "He's taking a shower, I believe. You could leave it with me. I'll make sure he gets it."

"Oh, thank you, dear," she said, walking over and placing the letter on the table in front of him. "Are you updating your blog?" she inquired, glancing at his laptop.

John smiled and nodded. "It's been a while since I last wrote something, so I thought I would write about some of our previous cases so everyone knows that we are still alive," he informed her.

"That's good," she said, her soft voice soothing. "I do enjoy reading your blog. The things you two boys do are just so silly sometimes!"

All John could do was grin at her. Yes, he and Sherlock always managed to have something interesting going on in their lives. But it was really because of Sherlock; nothing ever happened to John until he met the consulting detective. "Life certainly is never boring," he finally replied.

"Well, you have a good night, dear," Mrs Hudson said, patting him on the arm. "Get some rest."

John called after her, "No promises!"

He then turned back to his laptop and reread the text to check for any typos. The last time he had slipped up, Sherlock had ridiculed him for days. By no means did he want to relive that experience. Looking down at the keyboard again, John started pecking out each letter. He had never been particularly tech savvy, which is why he had been hesitant to accept Harry's mobile phone when she gave it to him. As such, it took him ages to finish writing a posting, but the comments were always worth it. People actually read his blog and commented on their different cases. However, what really made John's day was when he noticed a comment from Sherlock. They had some of their most memorable conversations on John's blog.

John had nearly finished his post by the time Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. "Get lost?" John jested, not looking up from his laptop.

"Sarcasm," Sherlock noted as he headed over to the table. "What's that?" He motioned towards the letter on the table.

Glancing up, John responded, "Oh, Mrs Hudson brought it up. Apparently, it arrived for you earlier."

Sherlock eagerly ripped it open and unfolded a letter. Peeking over, John read: "51.529719, -0.315782. Come and play, Mr Holmes."

"What the hell?" Sherlock muttered under his breath, clearly baffled.

John cleared his throat. "They're coordinates," he stated, knowing exactly what they were. He was all too familiar with coordinates thanks to his army days.

Eye lighting up, Sherlock rushed over to John's laptop. John rolled his eyes and kept his mouth shut. It's not like Sherlock would care about his objections anyway. "Pitshanger Park," he muttered.

"Is this what we've been waiting for?" John asked, motioning towards the letter. "A letter from the kidnapper turned serial killer?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. I figured after the rental boat employee, he would come after me next," he stated.

"Why you?" John inquired, not quite following.

Smugly, Sherlock answered, "Because I'm the only one who can solve this entire case. He needs me dead so he can get away with everything. I knew he would eventually come to this conclusion. It's only logical. I just did not know how he would go about it."

John frowned as he looked at the computer screen. The exact location was in the middle of some trees. Somewhere that would be obscured from the road and others, especially at night. "So I take it that we're going to meet this madman," he finally said. "Since I cannot imagine you letting this opportunity to pass you by."

"No," Sherlock said, rising to his feet.

"No?" John echoed, flabbergasted.

Glancing back at John, Sherlock repeated, "No. _We_ are not going to meet this man. _I _am."

"You're planning to go alone," John clarified, not sure whether he should feel hurt or horrified. "To meet a madman who has killed at least three people – possibly four."

Sherlock pulled on his trench coat as he answered, "That's correct."

"And why the bloody hell can's I come along?" John snapped.

In a very calm voice, Sherlock stated, "Because someone needs to be holding down the fort in the very slim chance that something might happen to me. I need to be sure that there is someone who can inform Lestrade about what happened. Now fetch me my revolver."

"No," John responded. "First of all, that's an awful excuse. Second of all, it's _my_ revolver, so I'm not fetching it unless I'm coming with or you give me the real reason you want me to stay behind."

Sighing, Sherlock turned around and said, "You want the real reason? The cold, hard truth?"

"Of course," John answered confidently.

Sherlock looked him in the eyes and said, "I don't want you to come because you'll get in the way." John's heart stopped as he heard this, and he felt sick to his stomach. "You're a man who acts on sentiment and not logic. In a tense situation, you'd snap when I would call his bluff. I cannot have another incident like the Study in Pink."

"You were about to _kill_ yourself, Sherlock!" John snarled, not believing what he was hearing.

Exasperated, Sherlock snapped, "I didn't have the poisoned pill!"

"You cannot know that for sure! I waited as long as I could before shooting him, but I couldn't have you go off yourself," John retorted, anger quickly replacing his hurt.

Sherlock rounded on him. "And because of that, I was unable to get more information about Moriarty. I cannot have you get in the way again, so just stay here," he hissed.

"You think the kidnapper has something to do with Moriarty?" John exclaimed.

Scoffing, Sherlock replied, "Of course I don't, but I still cannot have you mucking up this investigation as well. So do me a favour: fetch your revolver and let me work!"

John set his jaw and headed off to find his revolver. It was when he found it that everything clicked in his head. Sherlock could not possibly mean everything he said. After all, it did not make any sense. Sherlock had never had a problem with bringing John anywhere before. He had never even insinuated that John was in his way before. Eyes widening, John felt his heart skip a beat as he understood. This was Sherlock's way of protecting him. For whatever reason, Sherlock wanted John to stay behind so he could be sure that John was safe. But no matter Sherlock's position on the situation, he knew that he could not let Sherlock meet this madman by himself. If something happened to Sherlock, John would never be able to forgive himself. Naturally, Sherlock would notice if he was being tailed, which left that out of the question. John had the directions himself, but there was no telling if he would make it in time even if he left right after Sherlock. Suddenly, John realised exactly what he had to do. Resolve washed over him as he picked up the gun. He had to – to keep Sherlock safe.

Turning back around to face Sherlock, John sucked in a deep breath before striding over. He quickly grabbed Sherlock by the collar and pulled him into a passionate, hungry kiss. Taken quite off guard, Sherlock gasped, allowing John to slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. After a moment of kissing, John could feel Sherlock begin to relax against him. It was the opportunity needed, and John reached around to the back of the neck and quickly struck the pressure point there. The movement was so quick that even Sherlock probably did not have time to realise what happened. Unconscious, Sherlock fell heavily against him. John staggered back as he tried to support Sherlock's weight. After a moment, he angled Sherlock perfectly to fall onto the sofa. John took a deep breath, knowing that his time was limited. He holstered the handgun and glanced around the room. Quickly, he grabbed a pencil and pen on the table next to Sherlock's latest experiment. After finding a page without any notes on it, he quickly wrote down, "I'm sorry, but I had to. It's for the best. –JW." He ripped the page out and set it on the table next to Sherlock, knowing the consulting detective would see it once he regained consciousness.

John quickly grabbed his jumper and rushed down the stairs. Jogging down the street, he signalled for a taxi. He leapt in and said, "Pitshanger Park."

The driver nodded and pulled back into the street. Antsy, John forced himself to not fidget as the minutes ticked by. He worried that Sherlock would somehow beat him there. It wasn't unreasonable; it was Sherlock, after all. After what felt like an eternity, the cabbie stopped. "We're here, sir," he called back.

John glanced at the fair and paid the driver before jumping out of the car. Heart ramming against his chest, he squinted in the darkness. The moon hung low in the sky, the only light in the deserted park. Swallowing, John headed forward. He still had a little ways to go to find their meeting spot. Heading towards the trees, John checked that he could reach and draw his handgun without any hindrances. He steeled his nerves before heading into the pitch blackness of the trees. After a few steps, John heard something. He froze, his muscles tense, and tried desperately to see in the darkness. Nothing. Walking a bit further, John found that his eyes were already beginning to dilate. It was becoming easier to see despite the fact that the trees blocked most of the moonlight.

"I see you received my invitation," a vaguely familiar voice called out.

Spinning on his heels, John watched as a figure stepped into a patch of moonlight. His eyes widened as he recognised Mr Durant – the mourning boyfriend from the hospital. "You," he murmured, shocked.

"Surprising, isn't it? I don't look like a serial killer," he answered, clearly amused. He then frowned as he finally saw who was standing in front of him. "You're not Mr Holmes."

John answered, "He didn't have time to deal with you."

"How unfortunate," Durant said. "I had hoped to spare your life at least, Mr Watson. You seemed to be a very nice man."

"This coming from the man who killed his girlfriend and her father?" John pressed, scoffing.

Durant chuckled. "Mr Holmes should have sent you at least prepared. He must know by now that I didn't kill Mr Thornton. That was all Sam's fault," he stated. "But I did kill Sam and Emily and that guy who could identify me."

"I take it that Emily was the name of your girlfriend and Sam was your accomplice," John said.

Durant smiled. "Oh, they were both my accomplices," he stated. "Mr Thornton never really did like me much, and he kept trying to make Emily break up with me. Well, she wanted to stay with me for the rest of her life. If we could just get some money together, we could run away and be together forever. Emily knew her dad would do anything to keep her safe, so she came up with the idea to blackmail him for money. Sam and I planned everything out, from the boat rental to the poison. It was fool-proof."

"But it went wrong," John pointed out, "when Sam murdered Mr Thornton."

Rolling his eyes, Durant laughed. "It had been an honest accident. Turns out that he had been eating peanuts while waiting, and he spilled the canister onto the photo. He didn't know that Mr Thornton was highly allergic to peanuts, so he didn't clean off the photo," he explained. "When Emily saw the news report, she was furious. She demanded that I kill Sam – an eye for an eye. Ironically enough, I had been hesitant. After all, he was my best mate. But then she point out that there was a chance he'd keep the money from us and without him, we would get the whole million."

"So you went to his apartment and killed him," John stated. "So what brought you to kill Emily as well?"

Durant answered, "The police had found Emily by the time I got my hands on the money. It was then I realised that if she was willing to turn on Sam then what was going to stop her from turning on me? I mean, who would believe that a supposed kidnap victim had been a part of the plan and poisoned herself if she's sobbing her heart out? Besides, I had already killed my best friend, and I was still numb from that. So I got permission to see her in the hospital. I gave her a larger dose of the poison. When I knew there was no way she could survive, I called for a doctor or nurse to come. At least she passed painlessly."

Very slowly, John reached back for his handgun. This man had no regard for human life. If he could kill his best mate and girlfriend without shedding a tear, killing John would not give him even a second's pause. "And now you're just tying up loose ends," he continued, his voice giving away nothing.

"Quite right. I've come too far to be caught now," Durant stated, drawing a switchblade. It was probably the same one used to kill the boat rental employee. "It's really tragic, to be honest. Had Mr Thornton not died, we would have never come to this point. You would not have to die tonight."

"Quite tragic, yes," John agreed. He drew his pistol and smiled as the colour drained from Durant's face.

After a moment, Durant said, "You won't shoot me. You don't have it in you." His trembling voice gave him away.

"I don't?" John inquired as he took a step closer. By now, his emotions had shut down entirely. "I was a soldier in Afghanistan. I've killed people without blinking twice as well." Durant looked like he was about to vomit. "But you are right, I am not planning to shoot you. I'm planning on turning you over to the Yard." He checked his mobile to find no signal. Sighing, he snapped it shut. "Come on," he said, slowly stepping forward. "Try anything, and you'll regret it." Durant raised his hands in the air as John approached. Keeping his gun trained on Durant, John walked around him and took the switchblade. He pressed the gun into Durant's back. "Walk," he ordered.

What happened after that was a blur. Durant spun around, his hand hitting John's wrist and the gun. Not expecting for the reaction, John felt himself lose control of the gun. It disappeared into the darkness, and John knew it was now the least of his concerns. Pain exploded in the side of his face, and he staggered back from the blow of the punch. Ducking, John felt a fist just miss his head. He leapt forward, tackling Durant before he could land another blow. They hit the ground hard. Immediately, John chucked the switchblade into the darkness. He would have a better chance in hand-to-hand combat anyway. Suddenly, John was kneed in the chest. He collapsed inward in order to ease the blow and was knocked breathless. Shoving his knees up, John forced some distance between the two of them. He blocked another punch and used that momentum to force Durant to flip over. Struggling, Durant elbowed him in the side, and John grunted in as a sharp pain shot through him. He locked an arm around Durant's neck, tightening his hold. Durant panicked, thrashing about underneath John. John felt another elbow hit the other side of his chest before the opposite hand managed to hit him in the eye. Pain exploded as his eyesight flashed white. Mentally cursing himself, John ducked his head down so he would not be vulnerable again. Two more blows to his sides happened before Durant began to claw at John's arm. Sharp, long scratches were made into his flesh, and John winced as he held on. Finally, Durant went limp underneath him. John held him in the lock for a few more seconds before leaping off him. His doctor's instincts kicked in, and he quickly checked for a pulse. Durant's heart was still beating.

Still a bit shaky, John rose to his feet and saw his mobile phone glinting in the moonlight. He snatched it up and checked for a signal again. Nothing. Frowning, John grabbed one of Durant's trouser legs. Conscious or not. John was not about to leave a fugitive alone for even a moment, and he still had an adrenaline rush, which would make it easier to move the heavy body. He dragged Durant towards the main road, designated only by the light pollution from the street lights. After dragging him for a good three minutes, John finally got a signal. Quickly, he hit the speed dial for Lestrade. As normal, it rang three times before Lestrade answered.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked the moment he answered the phone.

Startled, John answered, "Yes, fine. Why?"

"I just got a call from Sherlock. He told me to get to Pitshanger Park as soon as possible and that you were in danger," Lestrade stated.

John's jaw dropped. "You got a _call_ from Sherlock?" he echoed before feeling guilty. If Sherlock called, it meant that he had to be extremely concerned. Quickly, he came back to the present. "No, I'm fine. I'm fine. But the kidnapper isn't. Not entirely, at least. Not head, mind you, but…" His voice trailed as he realised just how nonsensical he sounded. "Yeah, so you're going to need an ambulance for him. And he's definitely your guy. He confessed to me."

"Who is it?" Lestrade inquired.

John said, "Yeah. It's Mr Durant."

"You mean Richard Durant? The boyfriend of Emily Thornton, our kidnap victim?" Lestrade clarified.

Nodding, John said, "That's right." He heard a small groan, and he pushed a foot into Durant's back. "Please hurry. He's unconscious right now, but there's no telling how long that's going to be."

"We're en route and will be there in a couple minutes," Lestrade stated.

John responded, "Then I'll see you soon." With that, he ended the call. Without wasting another moment, he sent Sherlock an SMS: "Everything's under control. I'll be home ASAP." Knowing the Yard, though, that ASAP could potentially take him all night.


	6. The Final Domino Stands

Lestrade to arrive on scene along with Donovan and Anderson just minutes after John sent his SMS to Sherlock. Naturally, John was questioned about the encounter, the confession, and the fight that ensued. He gave clear, concise answers, just as he had been taught to do in the army. They found his handgun and returned it to him; since it had not been fired, it was not considered evidence. The switchblade, on the other hand, was confiscated immediately. The million pounds were found in the vehicle Durant drove to get there. Apparently, he was planning to skip town after killing Sherlock. Although Lestrade insisted that he should get checked, John assured him that he was fine in order to avoid more questions and time consumed by things he could be doing back at the flat.

Nearly two hours after the ordeal, John finally arrived home. He opened the front door and heard the sweet sound of the violin. Slowly, he headed up the stairs. Part of him – admittedly the coward part that did exist yet he managed to almost always ignore – wanted to just continue up the stairs to his bed, collapse, and sleep until next week. However, John knew better; Sherlock deserved answers. Pressing his lips together, John opened the door to the flat. Sherlock did not stop playing the piece. Instead, he finished it, and John waited patiently the entire time. Once he was done, John called out, "I'm home."

"I know," Sherlock answered, not turning around. "When did you figure it out?"

John frowned. "While I was fetching my handgun," he responded, knowing exactly what Sherlock was talking about.

"You're a bloody idiot," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

Nodding his head, John replied, "I could say the same about you. After all, you were planning to do the very same thing."

"Yes, but my intellectual prowess is far more superior than yours or his," Sherlock snapped. "I would have had all my answers, and the culprit would have been in Lestrade's custody much sooner." Then he abruptly asked, "What did he tell you anyway?"

John replied, "Probably everything you've already deduced. The culprit was the daughter's boyfriend. His best mate was the accomplice. The first death was completely accidental and caused the next three deaths to happen. And you were supposed to be his last victim. You can imagine how devastated he was to see me standing there instead of you."

"I can imagine," Sherlock said indifferently.

"He then planned to skip town – had the money in the car and everything," John finished. Sherlock's back was still to him, and he figured that they really were not going to get anywhere tonight. "Well, I'm going to patched myself up and head off to bed," he declared, heading towards the kitchen. They kept the first aid kit in there just in case one of Sherlock's experiments ever went wrong.

Sherlock spun on his heels, causing John to freeze and look at him. Immediately, Sherlock's expression softened. He set down his violin and strode over to John, who had yet to see what he looked like. All he knew was that his left eye was a bit swollen and that his entire chest ached. Tentatively, Sherlock reached out and barely caressed around the swelling. His eyes then locked onto the other side of John's face. "You fought with him," he murmured, carefully examining the injuries.

"Yet another brilliant deduction by the one and only Mr Sherlock Holmes," John said in an announcer's voice.

Looking down, Sherlock said, "Take off your shirt."

"Sherlock, it's not really that bad. It hardly hurts at all," John lied.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and glared at John before pulling up at his shirt. Complying, John slowly removed his shirt, wincing as a dull ache went through his chest. He looked down to find he was already bruising down his sides where he got kneed. Very lightly, Sherlock's fingers outlined the bruises, and John took in a sharp breath when Sherlock accidentally touched one too hard. Swiftly retracting his hand, Sherlock looked up to John's face. Their eyes remained locked for a long moment before Sherlock leaned forward and gently brushed his lips against John's. Eyes fluttering shut, John locked a hand in Sherlock's hair and brought him closer. Sherlock gently stroked John's left cheek before pulling away from the kiss.

"You're a bloody idiot," Sherlock whispered, gently kissing the bruise on John's right cheek.

Smiling, John replied, "Bloody, maybe, but an idiot would have gotten himself killed."

"I'm not sure if I should be upset or relieved," Sherlock confessed, his breath ticking John's ear.

"Welcome to my world," John jested as he felt Sherlock gently kissed his neck. He gasped as he felt a jolt of pleasure shoot though his body. "Sherlock!"

"Yes?" Sherlock responded before nipping at his Adam's apple.

John's breathing doubled as he felt Sherlock's lips travel down his neck. A rush of urgency rocked his body, and he knew that Sherlock probably did not realise what he was doing. "Sherlock, stop!"

Sharply pulling back, Sherlock looked down at John with hurt eyes. "Did I do something wrong?" he murmured. Before John could respond, he continued, "I read that the erogenous zones of a man included the Adam's apple and the nipples among others, of course, but they warned that it was different for every person."

"You _researched_ that?" John inquired incredulously.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I wanted to experiment it, but I figured you might object," he responded. "So research was really my only option."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," John breathed out, chuckling. He could only imagine what he reaction would be if Sherlock had dropped that bombshell on him. "I have to get bandaged up," he said, catching Sherlock's hand as it moved towards his chest.

Pressing his lips together in distaste, Sherlock reluctantly pulled away. "You shouldn't have gone alone," he stated as John headed into the kitchen.

"We've already had this argument," John pointed out as he pulled down the first aid kit. "And must I remind you again that you had been planning to do the same thing?"

Sherlock grumbled, "I would have never allowed it to come to blows."

"Of course not, because your incredible intellect would have left him paralysed in awe," John said sarcastically as he pulled out the gauze. "Now get over here and help me for a moment."

Sherlock walked over and stood in front of him. "What do you need?"

"Hold this," John responded, holding the end of the gauze against his chest. Sherlock's lithe fingers pressed gently against the gauze, holding it into place. As John reached around, he grimaced and hissed in pain.

"Here, give that to me," Sherlock said, taking the gauze.

He pulled the gauze tightly across John's chest, covering the end so it would stay in place. As his chest was bound, John rested his arms on Sherlock's shoulders and watched the consulting detective work. His features were sharp and hard due to the concentration. Icy blue eyes focused on John's chest, his gaze was unwavering as he worked the gauze around John's body again and again. Staring, John could see a darkness in Sherlock's eyes and recognised it almost instantaneously. It was the same look he had when the American CIA agent hit Mrs Hudson. Durant was lucky to be behind bars.

"Done," Sherlock said, reaching for the medical tape.

Once it was secure, John stretched a bit to make sure it was tight and would not come loose too easily. "Perfect. Thank you," he said, rising to his feet.

"When will you be better?" Sherlock inquired.

John hesitated, calculating the wounds and time needed for them to properly heal. "Assuming that none of my ribs are cracked, probably a couple weeks," he answered.

"How am I supposed to make it that long without a case?" Sherlock asked, horror colouring his voice.

Confused, John responded, "I could still go to the crime scenes and assist you there. I just cannot be running all across London in pursuit of the latest serial murderer."

"And what would I do without my blogger?" Sherlock inquired. "No one else could properly replace you. Anderson would never work with me, Lestrade does not have the time or intellect that I'm looking for, and Molly's skillset falls painfully short of the one I need in a colleague."

John smiled at the indirect praise as he put the first aid kit away. "Then I guess you'll have to work on experiments in the meantime," he stated matter-of-factly. "I'm sure you'll figure something out, Sherlock. You're brilliant, after all."

"I have a few ideas of what I could do," Sherlock commented as John turned back to face him. Before John could respond, Sherlock kissed him hungrily, slipping his tongue into John's mouth. John allowed the invasion, kissing back fiercely. After a long moment, Sherlock pulled back and began nipping and kissing John's neck, causing John to gasp and shiver in pleasure. "A few _very good_ ideas," he growled, nipping John's Adam's apple again.

John shuddered as his heart sped up from the simple touch. With every ministration, he was becoming more painfully trapped in his trousers. "Sherlock," he managed to say, gasping sharply as he felt a hand slide down his hip. A rush of urgency shot downwards, and he bit his bottom lip. "Do you know-" he began to ask.

"Of course I do," Sherlock stated, cutting him off with a chaste kiss. "I'm a very quick study."

Eyes widening, John felt Sherlock's hand move towards his inner thigh. His senses were overwhelmed as he felt Sherlock's teeth graze his neck and a hand wrap around his now painful erection. John moaned as Sherlock kneaded him through his trousers. Grabbing Sherlock's hair, John forced his head up and pulled him into a needy kiss. Their tongues tangled, battling for dominance. Suddenly, Sherlock's hand slipped into his pants and wrapped firmly around his aching flesh. At the first stroke, John jerked his head up and let out a sharp cry of pleasure. Sherlock latched onto his neck again, roughly stroking him. John curled a hand in Sherlock's hair and let out a long moan. Finally, he collected himself enough to slip his hands up Sherlock's shirt. He quickly began mapping out Sherlock's body, tracing the lumps that marked his ribs before caressing up to the nipples. When he pinched one, Sherlock made a nearly inaudible gasp. Unsure if that was good or bad, John managed to knead the other. Sherlock rewarded him with a moan and an extra sharp stroke, which made John gasp in turn.

By then, John had forgotten about the night's previous encounters. Sherlock apparently had as well; his hand lowered from John's shoulder to his side. A sharp stab of pain shocked him, and he jerked away from Sherlock's touch. Recoiling, Sherlock looked at him in horror. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I forgot."

"Don't worry about it," John responded, licking his lips. "I forgot as well."

Sherlock grabbed John's hand. "Come on," he beckoned, pulling it. John followed into Sherlock's bedroom. Before he could address Sherlock, John was spun around and gently pushed back onto the bed. "Relax," Sherlock murmured, gently kissing John on the lips.

Sherlock's hands travelled downward again. This time, he quickly tugged off John's trousers and pants. Frantic to not be the only one naked, John tugged up on Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock allowed John to remove it, and John paused a moment as he took Sherlock in. This was much better than any fantasy John had ever had. Sherlock's eyes were glazed over in lust, his hair was tousled, and his chest was moving with every heavy breath. He was glorious, beautiful, and physically in front of him. Instinctively, John went to lean up to touch Sherlock only for Sherlock to catch his hands and push him back into the bed. Sherlock leaned down and gently kissed John on the lips. Wanting to touch him, John strained against the hands pinning his own. After a moment, Sherlock released his hands. Immediately, John slid his hands down Sherlock's back, softly touching each vertebrae. Sherlock deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into John's mouth, and reached down to start stroking John again. John nipped Sherlock's bottom lip affectionately as he felt the first stroke; he moaned and almost arched his back when he felt his twins gently massaged a moment later. Hands sinking lower, John cupped Sherlock's arse and pulled him closer, digging his fingers firmly into the flesh. Arousal burning through his entire body, John ached for more.

Breaking the kiss, John moaned, "Sherlock… Sherlock, _please_."

Sherlock smiled softly before pulling open the drawer in his nightstand. He pulled out a condom and a small container. Sherlock carefully opened the condom. At first, John thought Sherlock was going to take the top position. He had never thought about being on bottom, but he realised he did not mind if he was. If it was with Sherlock, _everything_ was fine. So he was taken by complete surprise when Sherlock began to unroll the condom onto him instead. Seconds later, Sherlock squeezed some lube onto his hand before stroking John's manhood once more. John bit back a groan as he felt Sherlock's tight fist wrap around him. He focused on controlling his heavy breathing in order to keep himself from losing control too soon. Suddenly, Sherlock pulled his hand away and quickly removed his trousers and pants as well. John took Sherlock in entirely and was grateful that Sherlock had not topped him. If he had, John probably would not be able to walk or sit the next day.

When he saw Sherlock position himself above him, John panicked. "Sherlock, no!" he barked, startling Sherlock to stop. "You have to prepare yourself as well."

A smile broke across Sherlock features as he heard this. Leaning down, Sherlock gave John's ear a soft tug with his teeth. Shivering, John barely processed what Sherlock said next. "You're not the only person who has been fantasizing about this."

Heart racing, John abruptly felt Sherlock lower himself onto him, and he fastened his hands on Sherlock's hips. John moaned as he felt himself being tightly surrounded by warmth. Sherlock slowly surrounded him, and John fought the instinct to thrust for more contact. Instead, John focused on controlling his breathing once more. After what felt like eternity, he was in to the hilt. Sherlock looked down at him with half-lidded eyes. Leaning down, he kissed John once more. He quickly slipped his tongue into John's mouth. Before John could silently protest, Sherlock began riding him. John's moans were smothered by Sherlock's lips. He instinctively tightened his grip on Sherlock's hips before moving with him as much as possible without hurting himself. Suddenly, Sherlock snapped back and cried out in pleasure.

"So that's what the prostate feels like," Sherlock murmured to himself huskily. "Fascinating."

John burst out laughing as he heard this. Even while having sex, Sherlock could not keep himself from analysing everything. Sherlock looked down at him, clearly mystified by John's reaction, before he also began laughing. They melted together in pure mirth; their chuckles ultimately turned into sweet kisses sprinkled across different orifices of their bodies. Eventually, Sherlock began moving again, rocking back onto him. John quickly reached down and grabbed Sherlock's erection, feeling it twitch in his hand. He started out with long, full stroked before following with short, partial ones. And just like that, they were thrown back into the throes of passion. Their moans mixed together in the exchange of kisses and caresses; their movements went from slow and patient to quick and fervent. With every strong stroke or thrust down, Sherlock gasped or moaned. John felt himself coming closer and closer to the edge every second. Suddenly, Sherlock's manhood jerked in his hand, and Sherlock hissed, "Yes, yes!" When John felt Sherlock tighten around him, he lost all control. He arched his back, pain mixing with pleasure, as he felt the euphoria of the climax. Crying out, John rode out his orgasm before feeling Sherlock spill out onto his stomach.

Sherlock slid off John and flopped down onto the bed next to him. For a long time, the only noise in the room was their heavy breathing. John's mind was still whirling, his body tingling in pleasure, and his heart pounding in his chest. He finally had half the mind to remove the soiled condom. Snatching up a couple tissues, John wrapped up the condom before pitching it in the bin. "That was… brilliant," he finally said, turned back towards Sherlock.

"Was it?" Sherlock inquired curiously.

"Absolutely fantastic," John stated, nodding his head. "And don't tell me that's not what people normally say. I might just have to hit you if you say that."

Chuckling, Sherlock smiled and looked over at John, who was grinning right back at him. "No, that's not what I was going to say," he answered before relaxing into the bed. After another moment of silence, John headed for the bathroom. "Where are you going?" Sherlock called after him.

"Shower," John responded, motioning to himself. "I'll wake up feeling disgusting if I don't."

Sherlock went to rise to his feet only to grimace and fall back onto the bed. "Oh, bugger," he groaned, rubbing his lower back.

"Stay there. I'll bring you back a wet towel," John answered.

He headed off to the bathroom, his mind still buzzing happily with everything that had just happened. Naturally, he cleaned himself off first before running a hand towel under warm water. He returned to Sherlock and tossed it to him. As Sherlock wiped himself down, John went to put his pants back on only to hiss in pain. It hurt too much to bend over. John gripped the pants with his toes before kicking it up, which caused him a temporary pain from the movement. Snatching it out of the air, John straightened them out before sitting down and carefully slipping them on. He pulled them up before looking over at Sherlock, who was grinning at him.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock responded, "I never knew your toes were so flexible."

"Yes, well, I don't make a habit of picking up things with my feet unless I have to," John responded. He shifted awkwardly before glancing at the door. Should he stay? Or would he just get in Sherlock's way?

Sherlock's eyes flickered for a moment, and John knew he saw the glance. Picking up his own pants, Sherlock slid them on. He then slid back into bed and patted the mattress next to him. Relaxing, John laid back into bed. Sherlock carefully draped an arm over his waist and pressed himself up against John's back. Nestling back into him, John could not keep the smile from his face.

"I always picked you out to be the type who liked to cuddle," Sherlock stated smugly.

Smacking Sherlock's arm softly, John snapped back, "Sod off."

Sherlock chuckled, his chest rumbling against John's back. "I believe I'm beginning to understand why, though. The chemistry behind it is very simple and extremely effective," he continued.

"Sherlock, do me a favour and shut up," John said, closing his eyes. He rested a moment, listening to Sherlock's deep breaths and eventually syncing his own breathing with Sherlock's. Part of him could not believe that everything had actually happened. The other part of him was telling that part to bugger off. Then that nagging question returned – the question that he had yet to have an answer for. "What are we?" he asked aloud.

Letting out a sigh, Sherlock replied, "You're asking the wrong question."

"What should I be asking then?" John inquired.

He could practically feel Sherlock's smirk as he heard, "You're an intelligent man. Figure it out."

John sighed in frustration as he heard this; he was not in the mood for twenty questions. Even so, he knew that Sherlock would not change his mind. So he filed through the questions: Are we boyfriends now? Or are we lovers? Or maybe we are partners? What do you think we are? What should we call ourselves? Finally, John settled for the question, "What am I to you?"

"Very good," Sherlock breathed out into John's hair. "Although I am surprised that you still haven't figure it out."

"Sherlock!" John groaned, too tired for this.

Sherlock chuckled again and shifted his head so it was closer to John's ear. Very softly, he whispered, "You're my better half."

A warmth spread through John's chest as he heard this, and his heart skipped a beat. Licking his lips, he shifted his hand down to grasp Sherlock's. Their fingers intertwined, and John never felt more content with the world. As he slipped off to the peaceful abyss of sleep, he knew that his relationship with Sherlock was now concrete. There was no way that they would ever get rid of each other now.


	7. Extra

The Four Times Sherlock's Words Failed Him and the One Time They Didn't

_Gunshots rang out in the air as the sun's rays beat down on him. Screaming loudly, soldier laid before him, bleeding out of his leg. When the soldier was shot, John somehow managed to pull him behind cover without anyone seeing. Now his time was limited; the gunfire was getting closer with every passing moment. They could be discovered at any time by either their comrades or their enemies. Applying as much pressure as possible with his left hand, John he attempted to find the gauze with his right hand. Bile was rising in the back of his throat as he heard some bullets deflect off the boulders in front of them. Turning back, John found Sherlock laying in front of him. Sherlock – barely breathing – tears streaming down his cheeks – his pulse fading quickly. John's heart ripped in two; Sherlock could not die on him. What would John do without him? No. He had to save Sherlock's life, even if it cost him his own. But Sherlock was fading too quickly. Unfocused eyes locked onto John's and his cracked lips parted to whisper, "Goodbye, John."_

Jerking straight up in bed, John gasped before crying out in pain. A sharp, burning ache shot through his chest, and he quickly remembered his chest. Sherlock jerked awake next to him. "John?" he called out.

"_Goodbye John,"_ rang through his ears again. Suddenly, John realised that his cheeks were wet and his eyes were still warm and burning. Pretending to wipe the sleep out of his eyes, John replied, "Yes, of course. I'm fine." His hands trembled slightly, so he quickly lowered them to the blankets before they gave him away. After a moment of collecting himself, John laid back down next to Sherlock. Unlike before, they were no longer snuggled together. That was fine with John; he did not like to be coddled after a nightmare. It always made him feel emasculated. Nestling back under the covers, John slowed his breathing and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart.

"It's only obvious this would happen," Sherlock said out of the blue. "You were in a fight tonight, after all. That would pull back some rather… unpleasant memories."

Setting his jaw, John snapped, "Shut up, Sherlock." He didn't want to be emotionally coddled either. He was a war veteran, for God's sake! Not some blubbering housewife waiting for a man to sweep him off his feet. Next to him, Sherlock shifted a bit and flipped over in order to turn his back to John. John knew this was Sherlock's way of conveying his displeasure. Setting aside his feelings, John knew it wasn't fair for him to snap at Sherlock, especially when Sherlock actually _tried_ to be there for him. "I don't like being pitied," he stated matter-of-factly. "I'm not fragile by any means, so I detest it when someone treats me like I am." Looking over at Sherlock's back, John continued, "This nightmare I had – it... well, how can I explain? It was one of my worse than normal nightmares." Sherlock did not acknowledge him, and John knew he would have to suck it up and say it if he did not want to have the first night they go to bed angry at each other to be the very same night they had sex for the first time. "It was worse because _you_ died in it."

At hearing this, Sherlock flipped over to face him. In the moonlight, John could see that his eyes were wide with surprise. "How did I die?" he asked, his curiosity palpable.

"Not by one of your experiments. That would have been more entertaining," John stated a bit jokingly before swallowing. He decided to leave out the bit about Afghanistan; it wasn't important or relevant in his mind. "You were shot. You were shot, and I couldn't save you. You died right in front of me, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. And it _hurt_, Sherlock. It fucking hurt to watch your life slip away and know that there was nothing I could do about it."

He waited for Sherlock to say something – _anything_, really. After all, Sherlock's silvery eyes were still fixated on him. Never wavering for a moment. He could see Sherlock analysing; he could see it in the intensity behind Sherlock's eyes. It was practically like watching the gears turn in his head. And yet Sherlock, who always had to have the last word in a conversation, said nothing in response. It should have been clear that John was done talking. The silence had lasted long enough to make that obvious. So why was Sherlock not saying anything?

Very slowly, Sherlock reached out and grasped John's hand, intertwining their fingers almost immediately. Blinking in surprise, John realised exactly what was going on: Sherlock didn't know _what_ to say. Of course he wouldn't; he had never been in a relationship before. His logic could not help him now, so he must have decided that it was better to say nothing than to say something and mess it all up. His analysing of the situation must have led him to the conclusion that physical touch could properly replace any words – or the lack thereof – and thankfully came to the conclusion that simple hand-holding would suffice. Smiling softly, John squeezed Sherlock's hand reassuringly. Then, he closed his eyes and tried to engrain the first memory he ever had of Sherlock utterly speechless.

The next morning, John woke up to find Sherlock was gone. He groaned and clambered out of bed, unsure if he wanted to know what Sherlock was doing at seven in the morning. Emerging from the bedroom, John found Sherlock curled up in front of the telly and felt a rush of relief to know that he would not have to dance around an experiment so early in the morning. John grabbed the bread off the top of the fridge and put four pieces in the toaster. Then he quickly filled the kettle before setting it on the stove and turned the stove on. As the kettle heated up and the bread toasted, John headed over to see what Sherlock was watching. Surprisingly enough, the consulting detective was sitting in front of a murder mystery. Staring at the telly, Sherlock squinted in calculation. John glanced back at the telly before heading back into the kitchen.

Suddenly, John called back, "Why are you watching that? It's obvious that the son did it." He dared to look back to see Sherlock staring at him in awe.

"How do you know?" Sherlock inquired.

John answered, "Look at his shirt. It's buttoned up." Sherlock swiftly looked at the telly, and John saw his eyes widen in realisation and astonishment. When Sherlock looked back up at him in awe, John continued, "I'm sure you've realised it by now. No one buttons up those kinds of shirts. He didn't realise that someone would hear him killing his own parents, so the police arrived sooner than anticipated. He panicked, threw that shirt on and buttoned it up to hide the blood splatter across the shirt underneath."

Sherlock's jaw was dropped, his eyes completely wide as he stared at John with the same look a little kid would have if they found out their favourite toy could do something new. Turning his back to the consulting detective, John fought the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. He poured the tea, his hands shaking from his controlled laughter. He set the tray with the two glasses and everything else needed and heard the toaster _beep_. Quickly, he straightened up and made sure to look serious. He turned around, and his façade nearly broke when he found Sherlock still staring at him in unadulterated amazement. Biting his tongue, John set down the tea tray in front of Sherlock and turned to fetch the toast. He pulled down two plates before grabbing the jam out of the refrigerator, purposefully ignoring the severed hand next to it. When he happened to look in to still see Sherlock watching him in wonderment, John realised he just did not have the heart to tell him the episode was a rerun.

Two days later, John and Sherlock found themselves at Scotland Yard. John had been called in to give another statement about the fight and to record the injuries sustained from it. Durant was pleading self-defence, so the Yard had to collect evidence to prove his allegation false. Standing in Lestrade's office, John was shirtless and had his arms stretched up. Anderson was taking photographs of the different bruises and lesions across his skin. Meanwhile, Lestrade and Sherlock were discussing the case.

"You mean to tell me that you figured everything out even before John went out to meet the killer?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

Sherlock responded, "Of course I did. It's rather obvious."

"As if," Anderson sneered as he zoomed in on one of the bruises.

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock smirked. "Would you like me to prove it?" he inquired. Before anyone responded, he explained, "First of all, the proof of life photo was the first red flag. The girl wasn't wearing a blindfold, which means there were three possibilities. The first possibility was that the kidnappers had masks on. The second was that she was doomed to die no matter if they got the money or not. The third was she knew the kidnappers and was part of the plot. When you found her barely alive, it reduced three possibilities to one. After all, they had plenty of time to ensure her death. If they had truly wanted her dead, she would have been dead well before you found her."

"How could you have gotten that from the kidnap photo? We didn't find that photo until-" Lestrade paused midsentence and stared at Sherlock. "You didn't."

Sherlock appeared genuinely confused. "How else do you think I deduced the location of the girl? ESP?" he inquired.

"Did you know about this?" Lestrade asked, staring at John.

John knew better than to answer that question. Pointing over at Anderson, John quickly replied, "Photographs. Can't chat right now."

Scowling, Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. "You cannot steal evidence from our crime scenes, Sherlock! An entire case can get thrown out if we can't prove chain of custody."

"It's not like this picture is going to make or break your case," Sherlock responded coolly.

Lestrade groaned. "One of these days, you're going to take something important. It's going to get our case thrown out of court, and I'll be out of a job thanks to you."

"Mycroft would make sure that never happened," Sherlock reassured him. "He wouldn't want me to be ostracised from the Yard as well. The pandemonium that would ensue would cause him much more trouble than pulling a couple strings to ensure your job."

Lestrade shook his head. "Just – _don't_ take evidence without permission again."

"John, could you lift your arm straight up?" Anderson inquired politely. John did exactly as ordered, grimacing a bit as he felt a dull burn shoot through his side. As Anderson took more photos, he turned back to listen to Lestrade and Sherlock again.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, shooting Lestrade a look, "it became more obvious with every death. The accomplice had a picture of himself with the culprit – Durant, was it? – in his living room. Honestly, how did you miss that?"

Lestrade set his jaw and opened the door. "Donovan! Get me all the evidence from we took from the second victim's flat," he ordered before closing it behind him.

"When we met at the hospital, the culprit was acting so poorly that I'm surprised you lot fell for it. Nothing about his body language conveyed sadness or anger. Such emotions only reflected on his face and in his voice," Sherlock continued. "I became suspicious, so I left to check the body. Two puncture wounds in the elbow revealed some truth to my deduction, but I couldn't be sure yet. When he killed the boat rental employee not even 24 hours after you told him about the possibility of a witness, I knew for sure that he was the culprit. I also reasoned that if I continuously pursued this case, he would eventually come after me."

Anderson rolled his eyes as he took a photo of the nice bruise on John's right cheek. "You're making this up," he snapped. "You have to be. If you knew it was the murderer, why would you send John in to face him?"

"Because he's a freak, that's why," Donovan answered as she entered with a box of evidence. She looked at John with a small frown. "I warned you that he only cares about himself. I told you that you're going to get yourself killed by staying with him."

John answered, "I survived Afghanistan. I think I can survive a beating or two. Besides, I went of my own volition, not because Sherlock asked me to."

Anderson took a photo of John's black eye. "Come on, you don't have to cover for him. We know that he probably sent you out to die. He's a sociopath; he isn't capable of caring about anyone else. If you told us, we could bring up charges and put him in a cell, which is where he belongs," he said to John before straightening out. John felt a rush of anger as he processed what Anderson had just told him. Subconsciously, John clenched his lift hand into a fist. He was tired of listening to Anderson's shit about Sherlock. If he knew the consulting detective _at all_, he would not being saying half of those words. Oblivious, Anderson loudly asked, "Now how do we prove that John didn't initiate the fight?"

Before anyone could respond, John nailed Anderson in the face. A sharp spike of pain tore through his sides as he put all his strength and anger behind one punch. Anderson staggered back before crashing to the ground. Sally screamed unintelligible words as she rushed to Anderson's side. Jaw dropped, Lestrade looked from John back to Anderson back to John. Eyes wide, Sherlock was also clearly startled by what had just transpired. John shook the pain out of his hand before realising what he had done. "Check his face for a bruise like that," he spat venomously, "and if he doesn't have one then I didn't swing the first punch." With that, he turned on his heels and stormed out of the room.

"John!" Sherlock called out, and he could hear the consulting detective hurrying to catch up. "What was that?"

John headed down the stairs, not in the mood to wait for the lift. "I got tired of him saying shit about you like he knows who you are. Calling you a sociopath – saying you're incapable of caring – saying you should be rotting in a cell right now!" he snarled before stopping. Anger overwhelmed him again, and he hit the wall next to him with the side of his fist. "And you just stand there and take their shit every time! You never once try to defend yourself or throw it in their face about how they're bloody wrong. It's so damn irritating," he continued, looking over at Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, and John could see the quick and numerous deductions being made. Finally, Sherlock brought his hand up to show John that he had grabbed his shirt on the way out. John muttered, "Thank you."

Gently, he took the shirt from Sherlock's hand and pulled it over his head. His anger was beginning to die down now that he was away from them, and he almost regretted hitting Anderson. Almost, but not quite. Once his shirt was on, he looked back up to find Sherlock closer than before. Sherlock stooped down and placed a quick, chaste kiss on John's lips. In that kiss, John felt Sherlock's gratitude. He realised that Sherlock was speechless again – that Sherlock had deemed even a "thank you" as incorrect for the situation. Without a word, Sherlock then turned and continued down the stairs. John hesitated a moment before following, unable to keep himself from smiling.

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs Hudson called in, lightly tapping on the door.

John looked up from his laptop and smiled. "Good afternoon, Mrs Hudson," he greeted. "How are you doing today?"

"Just fine, dear. Just fine. My hip hasn't acted even once today," Mrs Hudson exclaimed happily. "It must be due to the nice weather." John nodded absentmindedly, glancing back at his laptop for a moment to save the blog post he had been working on. "It's been so quiet today," she noted.

"Yes," John agreed. "Sherlock is out on a case right now."

Clearly confused, Mrs Hudson inquired, "Why aren't you with him?"

"I might have punched the lead forensics investigator two days ago," John responded, unable to keep a smug smile off his face. Mrs Hudson looked at him in surprise, and John continued, "He might or might not have said something rude about Sherlock."

Suddenly, Mrs Hudson grinned. She leaned down and patted him on the shoulder. "Next time, hit him once for me, would you?" she whispered.

John grinned and give a curt, acknowledging nod. Suddenly, both of them heard the front door open and slam shut. "Sherlock's back," he noted as two loud voices could be heard. They listened as the two voices got louder, and John realised that it was Mycroft who was yelling back.

Sherlock burst into the flat with his elder brother on his heels. "No, Mycroft, absolutely not!" he snapped as he stalked towards John. John exchanged looks with Mrs Hudson as they tried to figure out what the Holmes brothers were arguing about now.

"I don't think that's your decision to make," Mycroft responded calmly. "I'm not asking you to do this for me."

Glaring at Mycroft, Sherlock haughtily responded, "Lestrade is just as capable. Why don't you pull him away from his work for a week for your little project."

"Because Dr Watson is currently unemployed and would probably appreciate the work more than Lestrade," Mycroft responded. John heard Mycroft use his proper title and mentally groaned. Mycroft only used it when he needed a favour from him. Turning, Mycroft smiled sickeningly sweet at John. "I need your help, Dr Watson. There's a case-"

John cut him off, "Although I'm flattered, I have to decline."

"I must insist you reconsider," Mycroft responded.

Smiling, John responded, "I'm sorry, but I'm much too busy with keeping Sherlock alive and out of trouble. If you took me away for a week, we might come back to find him dead. Or even worse still: alive. Lord knows what we would return to if he was still alive."

Mycroft frowned for a moment before his eyes widened. "Ah," he murmured, smirking. "Oh, that's interesting. I must admit that I'm torn between being surprised and seeing this coming all along."

"What's he going on about?" Mrs Hudson inquired, confused.

Sighing, John turned to her. It would only be a matter of time before she realised it as well. So as Sherlock said, "It's nothing, Mrs Hudson," John answered, "Sherlock and I are together now." Sherlock's jaw dropped at the same time Mrs Hudson's did. Mycroft just stood there, smiling smugly about the entire situation. Flushing due to their reactions, John returned to his laptop and added, "So there. Now you know. It's not a big deal or anything."

"Well, I suppose I should ask Lestrade then," Mycroft responded, swinging his umbrella. "It's been a while since he's been on a vacation anyway."

At seeing Mycroft leave, Mrs Hudson became a bit flustered. "Well, boys, I'll be downstairs if you need anything. But remember: I'm not your housekeeper," she stated before heading for downstairs as well.

John kept pecking away at the keys, allowing the silence to settle in the flat. His face was still burning by the sudden declaration. "Good to see your opinion of our relationship has changed," Sherlock suddenly said, catching John off guard.

"I beg your pardon?" John asked, not following Sherlock's thought process.

Sherlock repeated in his best John voice, "Sherlock and I are together not. It's not a big deal or anything."

Smiling softly, John shook his head. "I suppose I owe you an apology," he commented.

"What for?" Sherlock inquired, obviously perplexed.

"The last time you said that, I nearly bit your head off. But I didn't mean – it's just that – what I'm trying to say is," John stammered before pausing. "Being in a relationship isn't easy, but that doesn't mean that defining it should be difficult as well. I'm sorry that I snapped before. It wasn't right, but I was just frustrated that you weren't having the same struggles I was. Even when you were in 'not your area,' you still were so much better at it than me."

For a long moment, Sherlock squinted at John, as if trying to decipher something from his face or demeanour. John felt himself being deduced from the wrinkles on his face all the way down to the scuffs on his shoes. Eventually, Sherlock muttered something to himself, shook his head, walked over to the kitchen table, and began looking through his microscope. John turned back to his blog and resisted the temptation to type, "Sherlock Holmes Speechless."

John stretched out on the sofa and sighed. Four hours ago, Sherlock had received a text and went sprinting out of the flat without a word. Still sore and bruised, John knew better than to go running off after him. Even so, he was restless. Only God knew what Sherlock was getting himself into that very moment. John rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth as time slowly ticked by. An hour later, John heard the front door open. It took nearly all his self-control to keep from checking to see if it was Sherlock. As he heard heavy footsteps heading up the stairs, John relaxed. The door to the flat opened, and John looked over to find Sherlock dishevelled and short of breath. A long scratch stretched across his right cheek, and John knew that the evening had not gone as Sherlock planned. Quickly, John headed into the kitchen, set the kettle on the stove, and grabbed the first aid kit. He entered the living room to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands.

Kneeling down in front of him, John opened the first aid kit and grabbed the disinfectant. "Sherlock," he said softly, "let me see the scratch."

Without saying a word, Sherlock dropped his right hand and turned his head to give John better access to the wound. John applied the disinfectant and quickly patched it up. Just as he finished, the kettle whistled. John packed up the first aid kit and put it back while en route to the kettle. Preparing some tea, he wondered what happened to make Sherlock so quiet and passive. Part of him worried that Moriarty had emerged from hiding, but he figured Sherlock would have been excited about that. After all, Moriarty was considered interesting and novel by the consulting detective. John set the tray like always, remembering to set the spoon so Sherlock could pick it up easily with his right hand, and brought it into the living room. Gently, he set it down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. He poured the tea and took a cup, not pressing or prodding Sherlock to do the same. As he went to sit in his chair, he felt Sherlock grab his hand. John looked back in surprise and curiosity.

"Eros, ludus, storge, pragma, agape, and mania," Sherlock listed.

Confused, John asked, "What?"

"Those are the six different types of love: eros, ludus, storge, pragma, agape, and mania," Sherlock explained. "Eros love focuses more on beauty and physical attraction. Such lovers are considered unrealistic since they live in a fantasy world where beauty never fades and hardships never happen. Ludus love is about excitement and not taken very seriously. Such lovers are known to be sexually aggressive and only maintain partners as long as they are found interesting or amusing. Storge love is about compatibility and lacks intense passion. The relationship between lovers might be difficult to define due to the slow pace of the relationship, and sex comes in late and plays no great importance. Pragma love generally focuses on social aspects and the usefulness of a relationship instead of personal qualities and romance. Agape is a completely selfless love, in which the lovers expect nothing from the people they love and would give up anything for them. This love is generally used to describe love from Gods in different religions. And then there's mania, which is characterised by extreme highs and lows. Such lovers incessantly worry about losing their lovers and become obsessive, believing their self-worth only comes from being loved."

John's mind whirled as he tried to remember everything Sherlock just told him. Finally, he said, "Alright."

"Six different types of love defined in the English language, John, and not a single one describes how I feel about you," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. John blinked in surprise as he heard this. Normally, Sherlock refrained from speaking so openly about his feelings. Something traumatic must have happened tonight for him to feel the need to put everything into words. John felt Sherlock gently squeeze his hand. "That's why I cannot bring myself to say those three words. Do not believe it's because I feel nothing, but it's because _love_ cannot possibly describe how I feel about you. It's inadequate."

Shaking his head, John said, "It's fine, Sherlock."

"It's not," Sherlock replied earnestly, his hand tightening around John's. "Because one day, you'll need to hear it. You'll need to hear it from me so you can remember it forever. So I'll say it just this once. Just once, John, so don't forget. Whatever you do, you have to promise me you won't forget."

John could feel the gravity of the situation, and it felt like a cold block of ice lodged itself in his stomach. Bile thick in his throat, he heard his voice crack a bit as he said, "I promise."

"I love you, John Watson," Sherlock stated, locking eyes with him. John was drawn in, seeing the sincerity in Sherlock's eyes. "I'm in love with you. And no matter what might come, that will never change."

John suddenly and inexplicably felt lighter. "I love you, too," he murmured.

"I know," Sherlock responded, smirking. Gently, he pulled John down and into a passionate kiss. And for that moment, John forgot everything. He forgot about Sherlock's unnatural silence, forgot about the cut across his face, and forgot about the sinking suspicion in his gut. All he could hear were those words echoing in his mind, and all he could feel were Sherlock's lips against his own.


End file.
